IN&THE 
FOREST 


Maximilian  Foster 


In   the  Forest 


Roaring  in  frenzy,  the  older  bull  upreared.  wavered,  and 
crashed  backward." 


In  the  Forest 


Tales  of  Wood-Life 

By 

MAXIMILIAN    FOSTER 


till' 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &    CO. 

1901 


COPYRIGHT,  1901, 
BY  JOHN  WANAMAKER. 

COPYRIGHT,  1901, 
BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CO. 


J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


F 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I.    THE  CONQUEROR i 

II.    TERROR 27 

III.  LEGS 53 

IV.  TRAGEDY 83 

V.    THE  SURVIVORS 114 

VI.  ON  THE  SNOW 162 

VII.  AT  THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL  .  .  .  .194 

VIII.  THE  DUNGARVAN  WHOOPER  ....  242 

IX.     LIBERTY 293 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"  Roaring  in  frenzy,  the  older  bull  upreared,  wavered,  and 

crashed  backward " Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"  High  into  the  air  leaped  the  conquering  bull"     ...       26 

"  The  spotted  fawn,  halting  and  curious,  sniffed  noisily,  stretch- 
ing out  its  little  nose  and  wagging  its  ears  "  .  .  30 

"  One  convulsive  leap  carried  the  buck  halfway  to  the  shore  "       34 

"  A  yearling  buck  —  a  lithe,  graceful  creature,  yet  ever  affected 

by  its  terrors  " 38 

The  fawn  and  the  spike-horn 42 

"  Lifted  both  fore  feet  together,  and  with  a  powerful,  sweeping 

stroke  beat  it  down  " 50 

"  Far  down  in  the  hollows  he  could  see  the  black-bearded 

man  loping  along  on  a  horse  " 56 

"Legs" 64 

"  Legs  sank  his  fangs  deep  into  the  nose  of  the  harrying  foe  "       70 

"  Over  the  bank  raced  Kimrie  .  .  .  then  the  cloud  of  hounds 

flung  themselves  upon  the  fight " 82 

"A  cow,  the  summer's  calf,  and  a  spike-horn  bull;  behind 
them  a  lord  of  the  swamps  .  .  .  swinging  his  antlered 
crest" 86 

"  The  cow  .  .  .  stood  fixed  there,  rigid  in  alarm  "  .         .         .88 

vii 


viii  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

FACING   PAGE 

"Turning  tail,  the  spike-horn  fled  squealing  down  the  ridges 

before  his  infuriated  vanquisher "  .         .         .         .92 

"The  spike-horn  lifted  his  head  and  roared  defiantly  to  the 

world" 94 

"The  last  of  the  band  .  .  .  were  grazing  slowly  toward  an 
opening  in  the  hills.  At  the  edge  of  the  timber  the  herd 
bull  turned  and  roared  across  the  interval"  .  .  .120 

"  The  roan  shied  from  the  dead  hulk  lying  on  the  grass,  and 
Markovitch  .  .  .  rode  straight  for  the  hills,  and  at  his 
coming  a  coatless  figure  rose  and  scutted  toward  the 
trees" 144 

"  Under  the  lee  of  a  fir  thicket  stood  the  herd  .  .  .  here,  far 

in  the  south,  it  had  halted  for  food  and  rest"  .         .         .     156 

"The  moose  —  a  big  bull  —  still  was  travelling,  vigorous  in 

his  stride" 162 

"  He  was  a  colossus  now  ...  his  horns,  broadly  palmed  and 
fixed  with  a  fringe  of  bayonet  prongs,  were  the  terror  and 
envy  of  the  herds  " 222 


In   the   Forest. 

CHAPTER   I. 

THE    CONQUEROR. 

AWAY  by  the  head  of  the  forgotten 
Mamoziekel  lies  a  barren  —  a  gray  soli- 
tude in  the  depths  of  the  untraversed  woods. 
Grim  hills  of  mystery  look  down  upon  it, 
and  the  forest,  pausing  at  its  edge,  over- 
shadows quagmires  working  darkly  like  a 
witch's  pot.  Man  is  seldom  there.  Its 
waste  is  given  over  to  the  sombre  moose 
and  to  herds  of  woodland  caribou,  stray  voy- 
agers of  the  wilderness  who  track  in  from 
the  runways  leading  to  the  south,  and  go 
unchallenged  across  its  breadth. 

There  came  a  wind  from  the  north.  It 
drew  down  the  flank  of  the  mountain,  sheet- 
ing the  landscape  with  a  pall  of  flying  vapour, 


2  IN  THE  FOREST. 

roared  a  moment  on  the  forest-edge,  and 
swept  across  the  barren.  Night  was  falling. 
The  last  daylight  glimmered  in  the  west, 
and  hastening  clouds  streaked  the  horizon 
in  the  van  of  the  coming  storm. 

On  the  brink  of  the  black  pool  at  the 
centre  of  the  barren  stood  a  herd  of  caribou, 
their  heads  uplifted,  staring.  A  moment 
before  there  had  been  peace  —  quietly  feed- 
ing, they  had  straggled  across  the  bog.  But 
now  battle  was  in  the  air.  On  the  flank  of 
the  band  stood  the  herding  bull  —  a  great, 
white-maned  creature,  gray  on  the  flanks, 
whose  crowning  antlers  upreared  over  the 
cows  like  a  guarding  weapon.  Beyond  him 
pawed  the  challenger,  once  tolerated  in  the 
herd,  but  now,  with  the  rut  strong  upon 
him,  bawling  defiance  at  the  leader.  They 
were  sire  and  son.  Across  the  shoulders  of 
each  ran  a  broad,  white  band,  an  unusual 
marking  among  the  caribou.  All  day  the 
younger  had  been  beating  the  alders  with  his 
horns ;  now  he  was  wildly  eager  for  the  fray. 
Ruh-rr-r  /  he  bellowed  gutturally. 


THE    CONQUEROR.  3 

The  gale  had  lulled  a  moment,  and  in  the 
sudden  quiet,  the  sound  volleyed  across  the 
interval.  An  uneasy  tremor  moved  the  herd; 
it  bunched  in  its  agitation,  the  cows  hud- 
dling about  their  principal.  The  swollen 
neck  of  the  herding  bull  bristled.  Snorting 
an  answer,  he  breasted  the  cows  aside,  his 
call  of  war  ringing  clear  across  the  gather- 
ing night.  Pawing  the  sodden  earth,  he 
pushed  forward,  "  brattling  "  in  rage.  After 
years  of  mastery,  should  his  sway  be  now 
disputed  ?  Here  was  the  bidding  of  Nature 
—  once  more  the  struggle  for  mastery. 

Roaring,  they  crashed  together.  With  a 
ringing  stroke  their  antlers  met,  and,  heads 
down,  they  wrestled  across  the  mossy  floor- 
ing of  the  bog.  Their  breaths  whistled 
stridently,  and  the  ground  thudded  beneath 
their  quick-flying  strokes.  Night  resounded 
with  the  clang  of  horn  on  horn.  Nervously 
the  cows  looked  on,  or,  again,  in  the  lulls  of 
the  combat,  stamped  the  bog.  Sometimes 
they  trotted  to  and  fro  along  the  flanks 
of  the  combat ;  sometimes  they  blatted, 


4  IN  THE  FOREST. 

their  staccato  complaint  urging  on  the 
fighters. 

Weakness  fell  upon  the  herding  bull,  long 
time  master  of  the  ranges.  He  felt  his 
power  slipping  from  him.  Conqueror  in 
half  a  hundred  battles,  he  was  himself  to 
taste  the  bitterness  of  defeat.  Against  his 
stout  antagonist,  whose  thews  and  sinews 
were  an  inheritance  from  himself,  his  stand 
was  short.  His  breath  failed,  and  every 
voice  gasped  agony  as  it  whistled  from  his 
lungs.  The  younger  bull  plied  on  with 
added  fierceness,  hurling  his  bulk  against 
the  tottering  defence,  beating  down  the 
swaying  head — striking,  stabbing  as  he 
would.  Roaring  in  frenzy,  the  other  bull 
upreared,  wavered,  and  crashed  backward  as 
the  other  goaded  him  with  piercing  tines. 
A  moment  he  lay  inert;  then,  tottering  to 
his  feet,  he  fled,  his  implacable  enemy  fol- 
lowing, driving  him  from  the  place. 

A  sudden  flaw  swept  again  across  the 
barren,  and  the  wind  hummed  among  the 
spruce  like  a  sound  of  gales  upon  the  sea. 


THE    CONQUEROR.  5 

The  cows  had  wandered  on,  and  with  backs 
to  the  gusts,  were  feeding  before  the  storm, 
indifferent  now  to  the  outcome  of  the  fray. 
They  had  passed  the  pond  hole,  when  across 
the  bog  came  a  rattle  of  hoofs  clicking  like 
a  dancer's  castanets.  They  threw  up  their 
heads  and  tried  the  air.  Then  they  faced 
the  storm,  and  out  of  the  blinding  rain-sheets 
came  the  conqueror,  his  neck  still  ruffled  and 
his  eyes  still  red  from  rage.  He  called  once, 
they  answered  softly,  and  they  were  gone  to- 
gether—  fleeting  spectres  vanishing  into  the 
gloom.  It  was  but  the  way  of  Nature  —  the 
survival  of  the  fittest. 

With  the  deepening  of  the  snows,  the  bat- 
tling rage  of  the  bull  died  out.  Yet  he  still 
held  sway  over  the  herd,  leading  it  proudly 
from  range  to  range.  Their  old  leader  was 
gone  —  exiled,  an  outcast.  Together  the 
band  tracked  the  wilderness  —  here  one  day 
and  gone  the  next,  yet  ever  returning  to  the 
big  barren  of  the  Mamoziekel.  In  broad 
daylight  they  kept  to  the  open  country,  for 
their  lord  was  not  the  usual  caribou  bull, 


6  IN  THE  FOREST. 

who  skulks  halting  through  the  bushes.  His 
craft  seemed  infallible;  his  nose  keen  to 
detect  danger  in  the  wind.  So  he  led 
bravely. 

Through  the  long  winter  they  hovered 
about  the  barren.  Sometimes,  after  a  heavy 
wind,  they  voyaged  through  the  forest  to 
feed  on  the  lichens  blown  down  with  broken 
limbs  and  tree-tops,  but  in  the  deep  snow 
their  usual  food  was  the  moss  on  the  big 
barren.  In  its  centre  were  no  drifts,  and 
they  pawed  away  the  white  covering  and 
fed  fatly  upon  the  food  beneath.  Still  wind 
and  weather  told.  Before  the  new  year 
had  come,  their  coats  were  growing  streaky 
yellow,  the  hair  long  and  heavy,  and 
their  round  barrels  were  gradually  flattening 
out. 

The  bull  no  longer  wore  his  crest  with 
pride.  It  seemed  a  useless  burden.  He 
faced  the  wind  with  a  lowered  head,  and 
about  the  bases  of  his  horns  crept  an  itching 
soreness.  As  he  straggled  into  the  wracked, 
distorted  depths  of  a  cedar  swamp,  he  struck 


THE    CONQUEROR.  7 

his  antlers  against  a  tree,  and  one  antler 
dropped  to  the  ground.  Then  he  forged 
along,  lop-eared  and  lop-headed,  a  most  de- 
jected-looking royalty  —  for  all  like  a  tipsy 
princeling  with  coronet  askew.  But  a  day 
later  he  revived ;  the  other  horn  followed  its 
mate,  and,  relieved  of  the  uneven  burden,  he 
skipped  across  the  barren  at  an  eager  pace, 
the  snow  flying  in  clouds  under  his  cracking 
hoofs.  The  cows  followed,  and  working  to 
the  northward  he  crossed  the  timbered  val- 
ley, swung  up  over  the  ridges,  and  bore 
away  to  Nictau.  Through  the  forest  they 
kept  their  unbroken  gait,  their  broad  hoofs 
carrying  them  gallantly  over  the  snow-drifts, 
and,  at  length,  burst  forth  on  the  frozen  sur- 
face of  the  lake.  The  sun  shone,  the  air  was 
crisp  and  invigorating.  Like  kittens  they 
gambolled  up  and  down  the  broad  expanse. 
At  night  they  fed  in  the  black  swamp  at  the 
eastward,  and  with  the  rising  of  the  moon 
filed  again  across  the  ice,  bound  for  a  far- 
away range  on  the  headwaters  of  the  Sisson 
Branch. 


8  IN  THE  FOREST. 

The  winter  passed,  and  there  was  promise 
in  the  air.  Flights  of  wild  fowl,  gossiping 
high  overhead,  sped  northward  to  the  breed- 
ing places;  and  on  the  mountain's  southern 
slopes  the  ground  was  bursting  with  new 
life.  The  winter  uneasiness  of  the  herd 
had  waned;  they  sought  for  a  summer  rest- 
ing ground,  and  in  swift  passages  southward 
drove  the  bewildered  moose  floundering  from 
many  a  winter  yard.  But,  after  all  the  wan- 
dering, the  herd  returned  once  more  to  the 
big  barren,  and  in  a  thick  swamp  just  at  its 
head  cast  themselves  down  to  settle  for  the 
season. 

Domestic  affairs  occupied  their  time.  The 
bull's  horns  had  just  sprouted,  when  a  heavy 
cow  bore  into  the  world  a  little  awkward 
stranger.  It  was  an  uncouth  youngling 
indeed.  Its  feet  seemed  out  of  all  propor- 
tion ;  it  was  knock-kneed  and  hardly  bigger 
than  a  dog.  The  bull  clung  about  idly 
while  this  offspring  was  delivered  into  the 
world,  and  at  dawn  slouched  into  the  covert 
where  the  mother  cow  lay  huddled,  the  weak- 


THE    CONQUEROR.  9 

ling  at  her  side.  He  gazed  at  the  calf  — 
the  clumsy,  spindle-legged  creature  with  the 
spreading,  splay  feet  —  and  sniffed  as  if  in 
scorn.  But  still  the  calf  was  big  —  a  bull, 
and,  like  its  sire,  curiously  marked  with  the 
band  of  white  across  its  withers.  It  shuffled 
loosely  to  its  knees  as  he  loomed  over  it, 
and  the  cow,  reaching  forth,  steadied  it  with 
her  head  until  it  stood,  with  legs  far  apart, 
for  the  first  time  on  its  feet. 

Seemingly,  the  calf  gave  little  concern  to 
the  bull,  for  the  surly  leader  had  troubles 
of  his  own.  His  head  was  swollen  about 
the  pedicles  of  the  growing  horns,  and  all 
his  attention  was  required  to  pick  a  painless 
way  for  himself  through  the  forest  arches. 
Moreover,  the  flies  had  come  with  the  first 
warm  weather ;  life  was  hardly  worth  living 
when  they  grew  attentive,  and  there  was  no 
peace  without  a  lake  or  mud-wallow  handy. 
Two  pads  of  velvet  on  the  sides  of  his  head 
showed  where  the  new  antlers  were  sprout- 
ing, and  as  they  pushed  forth  he  scratched 
them  delicately  with  the  point  of  his  hoof. 


io  IN  THE  FOREST. 

They  were  sore  —  very  sore,  indeed  —  and 
he  moved  about  in  moody  dignity. 

When  the  weather  grew  warm  in  earnest, 
and  the  calf  was  able  to  frisk  about  with  his 
fellows,  the  herd's  longing  took  them  trip- 
ping from  one  lake  to  another.  In  the  clear, 
cool  water  they  swam  and  wallowed.  Some- 
times they  fed  on  the  water  grasses,  but  their 
main  food  was  still  lichens.  They  did  not 
often  browse,  as  the  moose  do,  on  the  tender 
sprigs,  and  when  they  did,  they  plucked  at 
the  buds  instead  of  nipping  them  clearly. 
An  Indian,  seeing  their  work,  would  have 
known  it  from  the  browsing  of  the  moose. 
"  Moose  ben  here,  sartin  "  —  pointing  to  a 
clean-cut  twig.  "  Hunh !  that  caribow  fel- 
ler ! "  —  pointing  to  a  fractured  one. 

During  the  day  they  clung  to  the  heart 
of  the  deepest  swamps,  and  at  night  tracked 
the  shores  of  the  black  ponds  and  pug-holes. 
There  was  one  mud-pit  in  an  opening  on 
the  ridges  which  they  often  favoured,  and 
here  the  bull,  his  cows,  and  the  calves  would 
wallow  in  pure  delight.  Garbed  with  black 


THE    CONQUEROR.  n 

slime  from  head  to  foot,  they  were  a  rowdy 
crew,  but  the  morning  dip  in  the  lake 
made  them  once  more  presentable.  It 
was  a  grand  life,  and  they  waxed  fat  and 
happy. 

One  warm  afternoon,  just  after  the  last 
snow  had  vanished  from  the  hollows  under 
the  hills,  the  herd  bore  down  the  slope  of 
Bald  Mountain,  and  swung  away  toward 
Bathurst  When  they  struck  into  the  flat 
lying  between,  the  bull  paused  and  threw 
up  his  head.  A  faint  air  strayed  about  the 
valley,  and,  as  a  cross-current  swept  over- 
head, the  bull  caught  a  warning  scent  —  the 
rank  taint  that  betrayed  the  presence  of  a 
foe.  He  sniffed  heavily,  his  nose  wrinkling 
as  he  sought  another  gust,  and  was  just 
tentatively  stepping  onward,  when  there  was 
a  resounding  crash  in  the  bush. 

A  black  form  hurled  itself  upon  him.  He 
saw  the  creature  jump  —  a  great  hulk  of 
fur  —  saw  its  distended  jaws  and  horrid 
shape.  One  instant  he  stood  appalled,  then 
with  a  violent  thrill  he  leaped  aside.  It  was 


12  77V  THE  FOREST. 

a  bear,  a  lean,  ravenous  creature,  not  long 
from  its  winter  den,  and  wild  with  hunger. 
As  the  bull  jumped  the  bear  shot  by,  missed 
its  stroke,  but  by  chance  gashed  a  cow 
cruelly  along  the  shoulder.  She  was  a  big 
one,  an  anomaly  that  boasted  a  small  set 
of  horns.  Bawling  with  fear,  she  wheeled 
and  fled,  a  flap  of  skin  hanging  from  her 
shoulder,  and  blood  streaming  along  the 
brown  forest.  Crashing  forward  with  fran- 
tic jumps,  the  herd  cleared  the  perilous 
neighbourhood,  and  once  free  from  the  peril, 
dropped  into  their  swinging  trot,  while  from 
the  rear  came  the  bear's  long-drawn  howl 
of  disappointment. 

As  they  clattered  along  the  back-trail 
fresh  disaster  awaited.  Beyond  the  spur 
of  the  ridge,  they  crossed  down  toward  the 
lake,  and  were  clattering  along  the  game- 
trail  at  its  edge,  when  the  cows  halted 
abruptly,  spun  about,  and  fled,  the  calves 
shambling  at  their  heels.  The  bull  stopped 
in  wonder.  He  tried  the  air,  and  scented 
a  strong  pungent  odour  —  saw  a  wisp  of 


THE    CONQUEROR.  13 

blue  smoke  crawling  over  the  tree-tops, 
and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  beheld 
a  man.  Cautiously  he  drew  near,  vainly 
trying  for  a  scent.  He  saw  the  figure  at 
the  fire  start  up,  and  then  a  ripping  crash 
thundered  along  the  forest.  The  bull 
jumped.  He  did  not  know  he  had  been 
fired  on,  and  in  mild  curiosity  skipped 
through  the  bush  and  circled  the  camp. 
There  a  sudden  suspicion  seized  him ;  he 
plunged  about,  and  in  a  long,  swinging 
stride  took  away  on  the  trail  of  the  cows. 
On  the  Bathurst  carry  he  overtook  them. 
The  cows  and  calves  were  ambling  along 
the  open  path,  still  nervous  with  vague 
terrors.  They  had  escaped  so  far,  but  what 
was  in  store  ?  The  bull  took  his  place  at 
their  head,  resolved  that  peace  and  quiet 
must  be  sought  far  away  from  here.  As 
they  dipped  down  over  the  crest  of  the 
divide,  and  neared  an  abandoned  beaver- 
meadow,  he  swung  out,  mindful  of  his 
horns,  from  under  a  leaning  tree-trunk  that 
had  all  the  semblance  of  a  windfall.  But 


14  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  cows  kept  straight  on.  Crash !  The 
windfall  fell  thunderously,  filling  the  silent 
forest  with  reechoing  noises.  The  bull 
leaped  as  if  struck.  Beneath  the  heavy 
tree  lay  the  leading  cow,  her  back  broken, 
writhing  in  a  last  mortal  effort.  She  had 
walked  into  the  trap,  sprung  the  trigger, 
and  the  dead-fall  had  slain  her,  as  its 
builders  had  devised.  They  were  the 
poachers  in  camp  on  the  lake  —  bear 
hunters  —  and  this  was  their  method  of 
getting  bait  for  bruin. 

The  bull  circled  about  the  dying  cow, 
powerless  to  aid.  He  sniffed  the  air,  and 
hung  over  his  stricken  mate,  trotting  to  and 
fro  with  futile  energy.  A  gust  stirred  the 
tree-tops,  and  whirling  along  the  ridge,  set 
down  toward  him.  Snorting  anew,  he 
threw  up  his  head  and  looked.  He  saw 
two  figures  running  swiftly  along  the  trail 
—  saw  them  stoop  and  point  forward,  and 
once  more  the  forest  resounded  with  the 
rifle's  deafening  noise.  The  herd  broke 
and  ran  in  every  direction,  leaving  him 


THE    CONQUEROR.  15 

there  alone.  Once  more  there  was  a  loud  re- 
port, a  gush  of  flame — the  man  had  fired  and 
missed  again.  But  as  the  lead  stirred  the 
hair  on  the  bull's  shoulders,  he  shook  him- 
self together  from  this  mad  fascination  and 
fled  —  away  from  the  direful  place  and  the 
cow  heaving  in  a  convulsion  of  death  upon 
the  forest  floor. 

The  herd  was  gone,  and  he  a  wanderer 
alone.  He  followed  to  the  north,  searching 
far  and  wide.  He  tried  the  unknown  bar- 
rens under  the  flank  of  Bald  Mountain, 
swept  about  the  edge  of  the  long  ridges, 
and  circled  the  headwaters  of  the  Mamo- 
ziekel.  But  they  were  gone,  he  knew  not 
where.  Alone  and  weary,  he  kept  up  the 
days  of  weary  pursuit,  felt  the  summer  slip 
by,  and,  with  the  first  frosts,  was  touched, 
once  more,  with  the  rutting  wrath. 

They  told  in  the  settlements  of  a  caribou 
bull  —  a  mighty  straggler  from  the  herds, 
bigger  than  any  man  had  ever  seen  before. 
He  was  using  along  the  great  range  west- 


16  IN  THE  FOREST. 

ward  of  Nictau,  and  twice,  they  knew,  he 
had  been  fired  upon.  Once  blood  had  been 
drawn,  but  the  men  on  the  trail  were  no 
match  in  speed  or  stamina  for  this  solitary, 
and  had  given  up  the  chase  after  weary 
miles,  convinced  that  the  wound  was  slight. 
His  antlers  were  a  marvel ;  they  spread  like 
the  brown  roots  of  a  hemlock  windfall,  and 
down  the  centre  of  his  nose  ran  a  brow- 
palm,  as  big  and  broad,  almost,  as  the 
shovel  of  a  moose.  Vainly  they  sought 
for  a  nearer  shot ;  but  his  craft  foiled  them. 
At  the  first  suggestion  of  danger  he  was 
gone,  vanishing  like  a  spectre. 

Fear  had  taught  its  lesson  to  the  big  bull. 
He  had  renounced  his  first  swaggering  indif- 
ference, and  now  skulked  and  treaded  as 
timorously  as  any  creature  on  the  range. 
He  followed  the  wind  keenly,  and  on  the 
rising  ridges  looked  over  for  possible  foes 
before  revealing  himself.  He  no  longer 
swam  the  ponds  in  daylight,  and  rarely 
moved  except  at  night.  But  among  the 
caribou  he  was  still  master.  He  fought  from 


THE    CONQUEROR.  17 

range  to  range,  forever  looking  for  the  lost 
herd,  but  the  snows  came  again,  and  he  had 
not  found  it.  Sometimes  he  forgot  his 
terrors,  and  ran  through  the  forest,  pausing 
on  the  ridges  to  roar  a  challenge  or  a  call. 
But  it  was  of  no  avail,  and,  at  last,  in  a 
sudden  access  of  fury,  he  fell  upon  the 
leader  of  a  passing  herd,  beat  him  down,  and, 
victorious,  thrust  his  companionship  upon 
the  cows. 

Year  after  year  he  kept  on.  His  rage  was 
masterful.  He  harried  and  abused  and  drove 
from  the  hills  the  bulls  that  sought  to  with- 
stand him.  He  rounded  his  cows  about 
roughly,  hectoring  them  at  every  turn.  At 
the  beginning  of  every  rut  he  fell  in  a  fury 
upon  the  spike-horn  yearlings,  and  gored 
cruelly,  driving  them  from  the  herd.  Per- 
haps he  was  in  mind  of  how  he  himself  had 
come  into  power  over  his  own  sire.  In  this 
warfare  he  wandered  far  from  the  barren  of 
the  Mamoziekel,  carrying  dismay  before  him. 
Yet  in  his  heart  there  was  ever  a  longing, 
a  desire  to  return  and  once  more  be  with 


i8  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  lost  herd,  to  go  back  to  the  place  of  his 
birth  as  every  caribou  goes. 

Years  passed  and  he  grew  old.  His  horns 
had  increased  in  size  and  strength  while  his 
vigour  held,  but  now  that  age  was  coming, 
he  noted  a  difference.  At  last  one  autumn 
found  him  with  diminished  weapons.  In  the 
place  of  the  centre  palm  was  only  a  spindly 
tine.  Moreover,  his  antlers  did  not  reach  so 
far,  nor  were  they  so  stout  about  the  beams. 
Still  he  felt  no  relaxing  of  his  ugly  humours, 
no  weakening  of  his  might.  He  held  his 
sway  unchecked,  and  when  other  bulls  came 
up  against  him,  he  forced  the  conflict  to  a 
swift  and  powerful  climax. 

His  fear  of  men  had  become  a  second 
nature.  He  steered  wide  of  ranges  where  he 
had  heard  the  rifle  speak  doom  to  other  cari- 
bou. Nor  did  he  relax  his  vigilance,  like  the 
other  bulls,  when  law  forbids  the  shooting. 
He  took  no  chances,  and  so  survived.  Then 
one  day  the  fit  to  wander  homeward  fell 
upon  him.  He  shacked  to  his  feet,  and 
roared.  The  cows  arose,  and,  at  the  sound, 


THE    CONQUEROR.  19 

another  bull  came  challenging  up  the  slope 
of  the  ridges.  He  was  big,  and  the  battle 
waxed  furious.  At  its  height  still  another 
bull,  an  interloper,  stole  in  and  drove  away 
the  cows.  Thus,  when  the  conflict  ended, 
and  the  challenging  bull  had  been  driven 
crashing  through  the  thickets,  he  again 
found  himself  alone.  He  stood  for  a  while 
and  called.  But  there  was  no  answer,  no 
clatter  of  the  brush  betokening  their  return. 
Darkness  fell  upon  the  forest,  and  turning 
his  head  southward,  he  sped  away,  home- 
ward —  back  to  the  black  headwaters  of  the 
Mamoziekel  and  the  big  barren  that  still  lay 
unchanged,  to  the  forest  where  axe  never 
sounded  nor  rifle  spoke.  Hope  sprang  high 
in  his  heart  —  the  lost  herd  would  be  found. 
Into  this  wild  came,  the  day  after,  a  man. 
He  had  followed  the  long  valley  of  the 
stream  that  runs  into  Nictau,  setting  a 
course  along  the  ridges  that  back  up  the 
southern  slope  of  Bald  Mountain.  He 
pushed  out  upon  the  barren,  and  halted, 
studying  the  tracks  that  marked  the  black 


20  IN  THE  FOREST. 

ooze  of  the  quagmire.  Presently  he  stooped, 
with  wide  eyes  studying  one  great  track  that 
punctuated  the  writing  of  trafficking  herds. 
The  slot  was  big  and  broad,  more  than  a 
hand's-breadth  across,  and,  with  the  twin 
dots  of  the  accessory  hoofs,  almost  as  long. 
Rising  with  a  gesture  of  eagerness,  he  sped 
along,  studying  the  ground. 

Overhead,  a  skim  of  dull  vapour  cast  across 
the  zenith,  and  the  wind,  moaning  fitfully 
among  the  tall  spires  of  the  pines  and 
spruce,  betokened  the  approach  of  snow. 
Abruptly  the  man  turned  aside  from  the 
trail,  plunged  into  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
and  threw  down  his  pack.  Pushing  aside 
the  bush,  he  crouched  there,  his  rifle  ready. 

In  a  thicket  farther  up  the  bog  lay  the  big 
bull.  Here  in  this  retreat  he  was  nursing 
the  wounds  of  battle  —  stiff  and  sore  and 
ugly. 

A  twig  cracked  on  the  hillside.  His  neck 
bristled,  and  he  heaved  himself  to  his  feet. 
Across  the  open  he  saw  a  cow  steal  to  the 
edge  of  the  woods  and  peep  forth.  Another 


THE    CONQUEROR.  21 

followed,  then  came  a  pair  of  skipping  calves 
and  two  more  cows,  one  a  shoulder-scarred 
creature  with  small  horns.  A  tremor  seized 
him.  He  saw  the  familiar  forms,  the  gray 
figures  of  old,  the  calves  band-streaked 
across  the  withers — the  lost  herd!  He 
pushed  from  the  thicket,  calling  madly,  and 
at  the  same  moment  another  bull  stepped 
into  the  open  in  the  train  of  the  advancing 
cows. 

Across  the  shoulders  of  the  newcomer  was 
that  same  distinctive  mark.  His  own  mem- 
ory went  back  to  the  day  when  this  great, 
gallant  creature  was  but  a  weakling  come 
into  the  world  in  this  same  swamp.  And 
now  it  had  grown  to  this  proud  estate! 
Year  after  year  it  had  clung  to  the  herd. 
As  a  yearling  it  had  been  tolerated  by  the 
usurper  who  had  found  the  stray  herd  when 
they  lost  their  leader  in  the  disaster  of  the 
trap.  But  with  its  second  year  and  its  first 
long  spikes,  it  had  been  browbeaten,  pushed, 
and  driven  about.  Still  it  had  kept  by  the 
same  little  family,  returning  in  peace  when 


22  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  rut  was  past.  Again  in  the  third  year 
it  had  fought  and  failed ;  but  in  the  fourth 
it  arose,  mighty  in  strength,  well  armed 
and  headed,  and  falling  upon  the  bullying 
lord  of  the  herd,  drove  him  forth,  stricken 
and  cowed. 

At  a  sharp  trot  the  band  moved  down 
the  wind.  Forward  stepped  the  old  bull. 
His  head  was  uplifted  with  its  still  mighty 
crest,  and  there  was  a  new  fire  in  his  eye. 
He  gazed  at  the  cows  and  at  their  leader. 
He  stretched  his  throat  and  called  anew, 
and  at  the  racketing  call,  they  halted  in 
their  tracks. 

The  younger  bull  stopped,  stamping.  The 
hair  on  his  neck  ruffled ;  he  spread  his  feet 
and  bellowed  a  challenge.  Who  was  this 
come  to  dispute  his  sway?  His  petulant 
hoof  pawed  the  earth,  and  gutturally  he 
gave  the  call  of  war. 

The  sound  rang  down  the  barren,  stir- 
ring the  man  crouching  in  the  thicket.  At 
the  challenge  the  old  bull  tossed  his  antlers. 
Before,  he  had  never  hesitated ;  but  now 


THE   CONQUEROR.  23 

he  did  not  rush  to  battle.  Old  memories, 
perhaps,  were  in  his  mind,  and  in  his  heart 
peace.  But  the  challenge  was  renewed; 
the  other  was  advancing.  With  lowered 
head  the  younger  bull  stepped  along,  fire 
in  his  eyes.  Ruh-rr-r !  he  roared  —  ruh  ! 

They  advanced,  the  old  bull  half  tem- 
porizing. He  called  plaintively,  but  the 
other  took  no  notice  of  the  appeal.  Nearer 
he  came  —  nearer  and  nearer,  and  the  man, 
crouching  in  the  thicket,  cocked  his  rifle, 
waiting. 

A  sudden  scurry  of  hoofs  beat  upon  the 
bog.  With  a  frenzied  effort  the  younger 
bull  burst  upon  the  other.  The  big  one 
fell  back,  unwilling  for  combat,  but  once 
more  the  young  one  charged.  Startled, 
the  old  bull  recoiled  again,  and  the  younger, 
breaking  through  his  guard,  stabbed  him 
on  the  flank. 

A  pang  rang  through  the  old  caribou's 
nerves,  and  a  roar  escaped  him.  He  for- 
got all ;  his  wrath,  his  fear,  perhaps,  aroused. 
Once  more  the  blood  ran  hotly  through 


24  JJN   THE  FOREST. 

his  veins,  and  he  turned  upon  his  antagonist, 
mad  for  the  fight. 

Their  heads  shocked  together,  and  the 
forest  threw  back  the  sound  in  clattering 
echoes.  The  torn  and  trampled  moss  flew 
about  and  blood-streaked  froth  flecked  their 
heaving  shoulders.  Again  they  lunged, 
the  antlers  locked  —  one  striving  for  mas- 
tery ;  the  other  —  knowing  it  —  for  life. 
Once  the  old  bull  was  forced  back  upon 
his  haunches,  and  was  all  but  lost.  By  a 
mighty  effort  he  writhed  free  and  recovered. 
Then  he  whirled  upon  the  other,  and  strove 
to  beat  down  his  crest.  He  was  sublime, 
yet  he  failed  —  and  terror  choked  him. 

A  flurry  of  snow  sped  across  the  bog, 
the  first  of  the  dying  year.  It  wheeled 
across  the  landscape  for  an  instant,  blotting 
out  the  fray.  The  man,  crouching  in  the 
thicket,  drew  a  hand  across  his  eyes,  almost 
appalled  at  the  fierceness  of  this  strife. 
Slipping  out  upon  the  barren,  he  crawled 
toward  them. 

The   younger  bull   drew  on.      With  un- 


THE    CONQUEROR.  25 

abated  strength  he  beat  and  battered  at  the 
swaying  antlers  of  his  adversary,  and  inch 
by  inch  drove  him  back.  His  rage  was 
direful.  The  cows,  trotting  up  and  down 
the  arena,  called  piteously;  yet  the  strife 
went  on.  At  last,  with  an  overwhelming 
effort,  the  younger  bull  drove  upon  the 
other.  He  hunched  his  shoulders,  struck 
with  destroying  force,  and  as  the  old  bull 
staggered  for  an  instant,  half-reared,  and 
turned  aside,  he  struck  still  again,  another 
mighty  blow.  Down  went  the  old  bull,  a 
brow-tine  piercing  him  to  the  vitals.  He 
struggled  once  to  his  knees,  turned  with 
a  despairing  call  to  the  cows,  and  died. 

Back  from  the  forest  blew  the  wind,  laden 
with  a  terrifying  taint.  One  breath  of  it 
sent  the  cows  streaming  in  every  direction. 
But  the  conqueror  gave  no  heed.  He  stood 
over  the  dead,  lifted  his  crest,  and  gave 
the  call.  Blood  and  froth  flecked  his  white 
mane;  the  steam  spumed  from  his  wide- 
pressed  nostrils. 

A   moment's    silence  —  then   from    down 


26  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  bog  streamed  a  spear  of  flame.  The 
hills  harked  back  with  thundering  echoes. 
Again  a  shot!  'High  into  the  air  leaped 
the  conquering  bull,  and  fell,  kicking 
spasmodically,  across  the  form  of  the  other. 


"  High  into  the  air  leaped  the  conquering 


bull. 


CHAPTER  II. 

TERROR THE    STORY    OF   A    DEER'S    LIFE. 

QPRING  touched  the  last  snow  in  the  gul- 
^  lies,  and  through  the  gaps  the  brooks 
roared,  leaping  down  the  slope  toward  the 
blue  reaches  of  the  lake.  Mount  Morris, 
shrouded  on  the  flanks  with  streaming  vapour, 
loomed  overhead,  and  on  every  side  lay  the 
forest,  dotted  in  the  distance  with  yellow 
clearings  —  islands  in  a  wind-swept  sea  of 
greenery.  Broken  ridges  lay  at  the  east, 
and  at  the  south  and  west  the  hills  rolled 
down  to  the  flat  country  where  Bog  River 
winds  —  a  silent  stream  drifting  between 
tangled  thickets  and  the  morass. 

The  brush  parted  and  a  spotted  fawn 
looked  out.  Its  nose  —  a  black  dot  against 
the  livelier  colour  of  its  hair  —  wrinkled  at 
a  passing  gust,  and  its  ears  pricked  to  and 
fro.  Somewhere  out  on  the  lake  a  loon  was 

27 


28  IN  THE  FOREST. 

babbling  to  its  mate  —  a  laughing,  mindless 
burst  of  sound  flung  back  in  gossiping  echo 
from  the  hills.  The  fawn  paused,  dismayed. 
"  Blaa-aa-a  !  "  it  cried ;  and,  at  the  call,  the 
mother  doe  stood  out,  a  timorous  yellow 
creature,  slinking  through  the  alder  thickets. 
She  harked  a  moment  to  the  lake  bird's  cry, 
and  then  together  she  and  the  fawn  passed 
along  the  shore,  their  way  upon  the  edge 
of  the  burnt  ground  and  the  black  timber 
near  the  falls.  Farther  on  were  the  lower 
sheets  of  the  river  —  the  brown  dead-water 
where  the  first  pads  of  the  season  were 
sprouting  from  the  lily  roots.  But  at  the 
crook  of  the  bay,  where  Jenkins  Brook  pours 
down  the  slope,  the  doe  flung  up  her  head 
and  stopped. 

There  was  something  in  the  wind,  a  faint, 
indefinable  odour.  The  air-current  faltered 
a  moment  and  then  flew  about,  eddying  up 
the  valley  of  the  stream,  and  was  gone. 
But  still  guardedly  the  doe  went  on,  the 
fawn  skipping  along  the  trail,  unmindful  of 
all  the  world. 


TERROR.  29 

They  crossed  the  flat  and  came  out 
through  a  copse  of  birch  poles  upon  the 
river  bank.  Beyond  lay  the  big  clearing, 
and  at  its  farther  edge  the  old  camp  on  the 
carry.  A  thin  wisp  of  smoke  trailed  from 
its  chimney,  and  in  the  dusk  its  window 
gleamed,  staring  like  an  eye  toward  the 
black  forest.  Along  the  ford  pattered  the 
doe,  the  fawn  still  skipping  at  her  heels, 
and  heaved  up  the  bank.  A  breeze  sighed 
in  the  tops,  swirled  toward  her,  and  —  bump  ! 
bump !  —  twice  she  jumped  and,  panting, 
stood  still. 

Somewhere  was  a  dog.  The  rounding 
breeze  had  brought  the  scent,  but  from  the 
baffling  air  she  could  not  tell  the  direction. 
The  spotted  fawn,  halting  and  curious, 
sniffed  noisily,  stretching  out  its  little  nose 
and  wagging  its  ears  like  hanging  chestnut 
leaves.  Then  two  small  white  forms  came 
tumbling  out  of  a  bush  and  faced  them. 

They  were  dogs,  sure  enough  —  the  wind 
told  that.  But  they  were  small,  very  small 
—  mere  puppies,  in  fact.  They  saw  the  deer 


3o  IN  THE  FOREST. 

and  stopped  suddenly,  so  suddenly  that  one 
of  them  almost  turned  a  somersault.  Ooof ! 
it  said  in  astonishment.  They  sat  down, 
their  tongues  hanging  out,  each  puppy  with 
an  ear  cocked.  With  their  forelegs  planted 
far  apart,  they  stared  at  the  two  strangers ; 
then  one  bounced  forward.  Ooof — oof! 
he  barked.  Bump !  bump !  bump  !  Away 
went  the  doe  and  the  fawn,  snorting  whoo  ! 
— whoo! — and  after  came  the  enemy.  They 
followed,  their  infant  voices  yapping  shrilly 
in  the  evening  quiet;  and,  almost  mad  with 
terror,  the  deer  fled,  leaping  the  thickets, 
thumping  and  crashing  through  the  woods. 
Once  more  they  splashed  across  the  stream, 
and  cleared  away  up  the  slope,  while  the 
hounds  nosed,  still  crying,  along  the  scent 
till  the  river  cut  off  the  chase. 

That  was  the  fawn's  first  experience  of 
terror.  Its  next  was  still  more  direful.  A 
week  had  passed,  and  it  lay  under  a  windfall, 
while  the  doe  went  down  for  a  noonday  drink 
at  the  brook.  It  crouched  in  a  little  nest  of 
leaves,  its  colour  merging  closely  into  the 


The  spotted  fawn,  halting  and  curious,  sniffed  noisily,  stretching  out 
its  little  nose  and  wagging  its  ears." 


TERROR.  31 

yellow-brown  covering  of  the  forest  floor; 
both  ears  were  pressed  flat  against  its  neck, 
and  but  for  the  two  big  eyes,  winking  and 
bright,  one  might  have  thought  it  dead.  A 
twig  snapped  near  at  hand.  The  fawn 
crouched  lower,  holding  its  breath,  and  with 
its  lively  eyes  peeping  all  about.  Again  the 
brush  cracked,  and  a  man  stepped  out.  He 
had  a  rod  over  one  shoulder  and  in  his  hand 
was  a  string  of  trout.  He  walked  on,  scaled 
clumsily  over  the  windfall,  and  was  just  drop- 
ping to  the  other  side,  when,  with  an  excla- 
mation, he  clutched  the  tree,  and  hung  poised. 
"  Hello  ! "  he  cried  softly.  Just  beneath  him 
lay  the  fawn,  limp  and  simulating  death,  all 
but  its  eyes,  which  snapped  in  excitement. 
Softly  the  man  put  aside  his  rod  and  fish, 
and  then,  inch  by  inch,  slipped  down  till, 
with  a  sudden  swoop,  he  fell  upon  the  fawn. 
There  was  no  struggle;  the  spotted  crea- 
ture rested  limply  in  his  arms  as  though  it 
were  dead  indeed.  Its  head  hung  down,  its 
four  legs  trailed,  and  but  for  the  beating 
of  its  heart  and  those  two  frightened  orbs, 


32  IN  THE  FOREST. 

one  might  well  have  thought  it  lifeless.  For 
a  few  moments  the  man  petted  the  forest 
stray,  blowing  softly  into  its  nostrils,  and 
before  long  the  fawn  plucked  up  courage. 
It  stood  on  its  feet,  the  man's  arm  about  its 
neck,  and  made  no  effort  to  get  free.  Pres- 
ently it  licked  his  hand,  and  he  laughed. 
He  blew  once  more  into  its  nostrils,  picked 
up  the  rod  and  fish,  and  walked  on,  looking 
backward  over  his  shoulder.  At  his  heels 
tripped  the  fawn.  For  a  few  steps  they  went 
along  together.  "  Scoot ! "  the  man  cried, 
waving  an  arm.  "  Scoot  —  I  don't  want  ye." 
But  the  fawn  still  followed.  Then  the  man 
set  down  his  rod  and  fish  again,  and  drew  a 
knife  from  his  belt.  Its  glitter  distracted 
the  little  creature,  and  it  drew  near,  sniffing, 
its  innocence  manifest.  With  a  swift  gesture 
the  man  seized  the  fawn  by  the  ear,  crumpled 
the  thin  tissue  in  his  hand,  and,  with  a  sud- 
den upward  stroke,  slit  a  V  halfway  from 
the  butt  to  the  tip. 

"  Blaa-aa-a  /  "    cried   the  fawn,  overcome 
with  terror  and   pain.     It   fled   away  along 


TERROR.  33 

the  forest,  bounding  right  and  left,  and  its 
face  covered  with  blood,  while  the  man, 
chuckling,  went  on  his  way.  After  that, 
whenever  it  fell  upon  the  trail  of  a  man  in 
the  woods,  it  sniffed  once  and  then  bounced 
off,  quivering,  and  with  one  ear  still  a  sore 
memory  of  its  adventure. 

Midsummer  came.  On  the  ridges  and  in 
the  swamp  the  black  flies,  the  midges,  and 
the  harping  mosquitoes  grew  unendurable. 
Then  the  deer  took  to  the  lakes  at  dawn 
and  evening-time,  and  sometimes  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  At  the  soft  edges  of 
the  ponds  they  soused  in  the  tepid  water, 
and  fed  largely  on  the  lily  pads.  All  were 
as  red,  almost,  as  the  maple  leaves  in  autumn, 
and  fat,  round-barrelled,  and  happy.  But 
middle  August  came,  and  a  sudden  change 
fell  upon  the  forest  herds.  The  fawn,  stand- 
ing one  day  in  the  shallows  beside  the  doe 
and  a  big  buck,  saw  something  come  stealing 
like  a  spectre  across  the  pond.  The  buck 
pricked  up  his  ears  and  stared,  and  the  thing 
halted,  drifting  as  silently  as  a  log  upon  the 


34  IN  THE  FOREST. 

water.  Again  he  went  on  feeding,  and  the 
thing  moved.  The  fawn,  hardly  understand- 
ing, saw  it  slip  forward,  and  once  again  the 
buck  threw  up  his  head.  Then  a  splitting 
crash  broke  the  silence,  the  hills  cried  back 
with  a  thousand  voices,  and  a  sound  of  thun- 
der rolled  to  the  sky.  One  convulsive  leap 
carried  the  buck  halfway  to  the  shore;  again 
the  silence  broke  with  the  detonation,  and 
down  he  plunged,  his  velveted  antlers  be- 
neath the  water.  Why  did  he  fall  ?  Why 
did  he  lie  there  with  the  shallow  about  him 
crimsoned  ?  Rushing  to  the  shore,  the  doe 
and  fawn  sped  away,  leaving  the  fallen  buck 
behind. 

The  fawn  had  hardly  recovered  from  this 
adventure,  when  one  night  it  fed  with  the 
doe  on  the  mud-flats  of  a  distant  lake. 
Along  the  bank  they  walked  —  slosh  —  slosh- 
slosh  —  sometimes  pausing  to  nip  at  the 
floating  pads.  They  turned  the  point,  and 
out  of  the  gloom,  more  silent  than  the  for- 
est's midnight  closes,  came  a  black,  formless 
shadow  —  a  spectre  gliding  upon  the  waters. 


One  convulsive  leap  carried  the  buck  halfway  to  the  shore." 


TERROR.  35 

The  doe  snorted,  yet  did  not  move,  and  at 
the  sound  a  red  eye  of  light  flashed  through 
the  blackness,  streaming  across  the  bog  and 
transfiguring  with  its  powerful  ray  the  dark 
edges  of  the  woods.  Palsied  with  fascina- 
tion, the  two  stood  quivering.  A  moment's 
silence  followed,  a  roar  burst  over  the  quiet 
of  the  night,  and  the  dead  forest  shocked 
with  reverberating  noises.  Something  flew 
by  the  fawn,  whistling  shrilly  as  it  passed, 
and  the  doe  was  down,  struggling.  Once 
she  blaa-aated  despairingly  to  the  fawn,  and 
the  agonized  creature,  understanding  the 
alarm,  raced  to  the  shore.  But  the  doe  did 
not  follow,  and,  halting  once  to  look  back, 
the  little  thing  saw  the  jack-light  turned 
upon  the  inert  form,  motionless  forever. 
Peace  then  passed  out  of  its  heart,  and,  like 
the  other  deer,  it  became  a  hunted,  harried 
creature.  It  fled  far  back  among  the  hills, 
leaving  the  ponds  and  the  destroyer  upon 
them,  and  alone,  shy,  ever  on  the  lookout, 
began  its  life  anew. 

But  even  here  its  peace  was  broken.     One 


36  IN  THE  FOREST. 

day,  just  after  the  dawn,  a  thin,  piping  cry 
came  trailing  toward  it  over  the  ridges. 
Ooo-ooo-o!  Wooo-oo-oof-oof — oof-ooo!  It  lis- 
tened, its  heart  beating  madly.  A  dog  — 
yes !  The  cry  drew  nearer  —  dog  music, 
but  in  the  ear  of  the  fawn  a  terror-striking 
clarion,  a  wild  and  awful  clamour.  Remem- 
bering its  early  experience,  it  sped  away 
toward  the  lake,  the  long-drawn  howl  closing 
nearer.  Panting  in  horror,  it  reached  the 
water,  and  had  no  sooner  set  out  swimming 
to  the  other  shore  than  a  boat  put  off  after 
it.  Mad  with  its  fears,  it  pushed  on,  half 
leaping  from  the  water  with  every  stroke. 
But  the  chase  was  short;  a  hand  reached 
out  and  seized  it  by  the  tail,  and  with  one 
violent  struggle  it  fell  back,  waiting  dumbly 
for  the  stroke  of  the  killer. 

"  Bless  me,"  said  a  voice,  "  ef  it  ain't  the 
fawn  I  slit  along  ago  las'  spring.  Shoo !  Git 
out,  there !  " 

A  paddle  slatted  the  fawn  upon  the  back,  it 
was  headed  toward  the  point,  and  scrambling 
weakly  ashore,  darted  through  the  woods. 


TERROR.  37 

Time  came  at  last  when  the  woods  no 
longer  sounded  with  the  rifle's  crack,  and 
then  fell  the  snows.  Day  by  day  they  grew 
deeper,  and  the  herds,  stayed  in  their  wan- 
dering, grouped  on  the  slopes  of  the  moun- 
tain or  sought  the  hollows  at  the  foot.  Their 
summer  coat  had  changed  to  blue,  a  thick, 
storm-defying  pelage.  As  the  drifts  grew 
higher  the  bucks  and  does  drew  together  in 
small  bands,  and  trod  down  paths,  breaking 
out  new  ground  as  the  browse  grew  thinner. 
Each  was  stained  on  the  flanks  by  the  riotous 
weather;  their  ribs  flattened  out,  their  hair 
grew  ragged,  and  they  were  a  disorderly  crew 
before  spring  set  in  on  the  lowlands.  But  as 
the  sun  grew  warmer,  as  the  sprigs  of  green 
showed  on  the  southern  slopes,  a  nimble 
sprightliness  infected  the  deer,  and  they 
broke  their  winter  yard,  leaping  in  sport  and 
playing  about  the  mountain.  Thus  the 
spring  and  summer  passed,  and  the  fawn 
had  lost  its  spotted  coat.  It  was  now  a 
yearling  buck  —  a  lithe,  graceful  creature, 
yet  ever  affected  by  its  terrors. 


38  IN  THE  FOREST. 

With  the  beginning  of  autumn  his  fancy 
fell  upon  a  doe,  a  stray  from  the  big  timber 
across  the  lake.  He  played  before  it,  his 
gallantries  vigorous  and  sometimes  rough, 
and  the  doe  fled.  But  the  spike-horn  fol- 
lowed, nosing  along  the  trail,  till,  with  a  sud- 
den clatter  of  hoofs,  another  buck  rushed 
from  the  thicket  and  confronted  him. 

"  Whooo-oo!"  said  the  spike-horn,  startled. 
But  the  other  gave  him  no  time  to  ponder. 
His  neck  was  big  and  bristling,  and  the  veins, 
swollen  with  blood,  had  discoloured  his  eye. 
Without  ado  he  fell  upon  this  younger  rival, 
jabbed  him  unmercifully  in  the  flanks,  and 
drove  him  clattering  through  the  forest. 
The  yearling  was  dismayed.  Heretofore  he 
had  looked  only  on  man  and  dog  as  perils ; 
but  now  one  of  his  own  kind  had  arisen,  mad 
and  battling,  and  had  well-nigh  slain  him. 
Sore  and  spent,  he  toiled  once  more  into  the 
hills,  and  here  he  learned  another  lesson. 

In  the  swamp  at  the  foot  of  the  valley  was 
a  herd  of  does,  hiding  from  the  gallantries  of 
the  bucks.  The  yearling  went  among  them 


A  yearling  buck  — a  lithe,  graceful  creature, 
yet  ever  affected  by  its  terrors." 


TERROR.  39 

and  was  suffered  to  stay.  But  he  had  hardly 
come  when  again  he  heard  the  direful  cry  of 
a  hound,  making  music  on  the  trail.  To- 
gether with  the  herd  he  ran,  and  presently 
saw  one  of  the  does,  hampered  by  her  fawn, 
fall  back  behind.  He  stopped  an  instant  to 
listen  to  the  dog ;  once  more  the  wild  clamour 
of  the  beast  resounded  in  the  forest,  and  then 
he  knew  the  chase  had  set  upon  him  and  the 
following  doe.  She  was  breasting  through 
the  bushes,  the  fawn  at  her  heels,  but  she  had 
no  sooner  caught  up  to  him  than  she  leaped 
aside.  Bewildered,  he  followed,  and  again 
she  turned.  Again  and  again  she  tried  this 
tactic,  till,  more  confused  than  ever,  he  kept 
on  his  way.  Much  ground  had  been  lost; 
the  hound  was  drawing  nearer.  He  heard 
another  voice  strike  in  —  there  were  two 
hounds  —  they  were  on  his  track.  In  a  flash 
he  understood  the  doe's  antics.  She  had 
deliberately  cast  him  in  the  trail,  desperate 
in  the  effort  to  save  herself  and  her  young. 
A  wild  fury  seized  him.  He  turned  to  bat- 
tle with  the  dogs,  and,  stamping  the  fallen 


40  IN  THE  FOREST. 

leaves,  he  raised  the  hair  on  his  neck,  his  eyes 
red  and  baleful.  Nearer  grew  the  baying,  a 
tempestuous,  awe-inspiring  riot  of  noise.  He 
looked  along  the  forest  aisles  and  saw  them, 
the  first  hounds  he  had  seen  since  that  day 
when  the  two  puppies  had  pursued  him 
across  the  lower  stretch  of  Bog  River.  One 
look  convinced  him.  They  were  the  same 
dogs  —  big  at  the  shoulder,  with  drooping 
ears,  and  jaws  dripping  with  eagerness.  They 
sighted  the  waiting  deer,  and  their  voices 
broke  into  a  shrill,  maddening  clamour.  He 
paused  an  instant,  overcome,  and  then,  his 
courage  failing,  whirled  about,  and,  blindly 
striking  through  the  brush,  fled  away  to  the 
distant  shore  of  Little  Tupper. 

He  had  learned  at  last  the  one,  masterful, 
selfish  lesson  of  the  wilds  —  the  necessity  of 
self-preservation.  And  in  that  moment  he 
was  changed.  All  the  innocence  of  the  fawn 
departed,  shed  like  a  winter  coat  in  spring. 
Crafty,  sly,  and  brutally  selfish,  he  took  his 
place  among  the  herds,  fought  for  his  own 
from  buck  and  doe  alike,  and  in  the  face  of 


TERROR.  41 

peril  became  a  slinking  coward.  Again, 
when  he  heard  the  dogs  upon  his  trail,  he 
circled  the  mountain  till  he  found  another 
deer,  and  running  along  the  trail  a  piece, 
leaped  off  sideways,  leaving  the  dog  to  pick 
up  the  scent.  But  when  the  scent  was  breast 
high  and  the  hound  followed,  however  he 
dodged,  he  had  another  trick.  He  would 
play  on  before  the  chase  till  he  found  a  stray 
herd  of  deer,  and,  dashing  between  them, 
would  mix  his  own  track  in  a  confusing  puz- 
zle among  theirs.  He  rarely  took  to  water, 
for  experience  had  taught  him  that  death  lay 
around  the  ponds,  and  that  no  deer  could  tell 
when  or  where  a  boat  was  lurking  at  the 
shore,  ready  to  set  out  in  pursuit. 

Encompassed  by  all  these  dangers,  he 
spent  his  years  about  the  mountain.  His 
antlers  grew,  and  he  was  strong  and  vigorous. 
He  could  play  on  for  hours  before  any  living 
hounds,  and  when  he  had  tired  of  their  atten- 
tions, he  swung  them  off  upon  the  trail  of 
others.  There  were  two  hounds,  however, 
that  he  tried  no  tricks  upon  —  hounds  that 


42  IN  THE  FOREST. 

hunted  in  a  couple.  He  dimly  suspected 
that  they  were  his  friends  of  old,  the  two 
from  the  clearing  at  the  head  of  the  lake. 
Whenever  he  heard  them  ranging  through 
the  forest,  hot  on  the  scent,  he  sped  away, 
swimming  every  brook  and  lake  within  reach 
till  he  had  shaken  them  from  his  trail.  His 
terrors  multiplied  whenever  they  were  abroad. 
One  autumn  found  him  with  heavy,  branch- 
ing horns,  and  a  renewed  desire  for  a  mate. 
So  he  tracked  through  the  forest,  pursuing 
the  elusive  does  that  fled  before.  He  had 
crossed  down  near  the  head  of  Horseshoe 
Pond,  and  was  climbing  a  bank,  when  his 
feet  struck  against  an  upright  band  —  an  iron 
railroad  track.  He  turned  aside,  and  in  the 
open  right-of-way  found  the  travelling  good. 
So  he  kept  along  in  the  darkness,  and  had 
just  turned  the  bend  above  the  outlet  when 
far  away  he  saw  a  light,  and  heard  the  ground 
click  and  tremble  beneath  his  feet.  Amazed, 
he  stood  and  watched,  waiting.  At  direful 
speed  the  round  orb  neared  him.  It  flashed 
in  his  eyes,  a  bewildering  planet.  A  roar- 


The  Fawn. 


The  Spike-horn. 


TERROR.  43 

ing  noise  as  of  a  great  wind  was  in  his  ears, 
and  then  the  night  screamed  with  a  terrifying 
sound  —  hoo — hoo-hoot-hooo  !  He  wheeled 
about  and  fled;  he  heard  the  woods  din 
again  with  the  brazen  noise,  and  linked  along, 
racing  madly,  though  ever  falling  nearer  to 
the  monster  rushing  up  behind. 

It  was  almost  on  him  when  he  leaped 
aside,  and  turned,  prepared  to  fight,  to  die  in 
a  corner.  But  the  thing,  clouded  in  white 
vapour,  thundered  past,  blinding  lights  flash- 
ing before  his  eyes.  When  it  had  gone  in  a 
last  flurry  of  dust,  he  sped  away  —  whool 
whoo  f  —  snorting  in  mad  terror.  Days  after 
this  he  clung  to  a  thicket,  and  each  day,  at 
certain  hours,  heard  the  dreadful  thing  rush 
by,  hooting  in  the  distance. 

He  found  his  mate  at  length,  winning  her 
after  a  battle  with  another  buck.  The  beaten 
deer  was  smaller,  a  weakling  before  him. 
The  buck,  lurking  along  the  Mud  Pond  trail, 
saw  the  pair  coming,  and  like  a  whirlwind 
burst  upon  his  chosen  rival.  They  struck 
together,  their  horns  locked,  the  spikes  of  the 


44  IN  THE  FOREST. 

younger  but  a  feeble  weapon  to  his  own. 
With  a  sudden  heave  he  turned  the  spike- 
horn  buck  aside,  and  gored  him  cruelly  in 
the  shoulder;  then,  unmercifully  goading, 
prodding  with  all  his  strength,  drove  him 
down  the  slope. 

In  the  spring  there  was  another  fawn,  his 
own.  He  suffered  it  to  follow  him  and  the 
doe  about,  but  that  was  the  end  of  his  care 
or  affection.  When  the  fawn  was  weaned, 
and  the  doe  sought  out  tender  sprigs  for  its 
browse,  when  she  found  a  tender  mushroom 
or  a  lily  pad  more  delectable  than  the  others, 
she  drew  the  fawn  toward  her.  But  often 
the  buck,  shouldering  them  both  aside, 
snapped  up  the  dainty,  and  at  times  even 
fought  them  away  from  it.  Once,  while  they 
were  together,  a  hound  sounded  upon  the 
trail,  and,  instead  of  flying  with  his  mate,  the 
buck  rushed  around,  mixing  up  the  trails,  and 
then  sped  away,  leaving  them  to  their  own 
defence.  They  escaped  the  hound,  took  to 
a  pond,  and  were  overtaken  by  a  waiting 
boat.  But  the  doe  was  in  poor  condition, 


TERROR.  45 

the  fawn  was  tabooed  by  the  law,  and  the 
waiting  hunter  let  them  go.  Late  at  night 
they  found  the  buck  on  the  upper  ranges, 
idly  feeding  and  quite  unconcerned. 

Before  long  the  mating  time  came  anew. 
The  buck's  antlers  hardened  sharply,  the 
dead  velvet  tearing  to  the  butts  and  hanging 
in  a  fringe  along  his  face.  During  the  day 
he  beat  his  horns  upon  the  bushes,  his  neck 
puffing,  while  his  eye  grew  bloodshot  and 
dusky.  For  a  time  the  doe  stood  his  crowd- 
ing, but  at  last,  when  he  took  to  harrying  the 
fawn  about,  she  fled,  the  little  creature  at  her 
heels.  The  buck  followed,  and  the  mad 
chase  went  swinging  around  the  mountain, 
deep  through  the  heart  of  the  thickest  swamp, 
across  the  big  blow-downs  where  the  trees, 
in  hapless  confusion,  lay  plaited  like  osiers 
on  the  ground.  Furiously  he  made  after  her, 
and  for  days  they  kept  it  up,  the  doe  fleeing 
at  every  opportunity.  Then  she  subsided 
weakly ;  and  roughly,  more  brutally  than  ever, 
he  drove  her  on  before  him. 

When  the  snows  came,  the  buck  found  a 


46  IN  THE  FOREST. 

new  peril.  He  was  resting  one  noon  behind 
a  windfall  when  a  stray  breeze  brought  him 
to  his  feet  at  a  bound.  Along  the  intervale  a 
man  was  coming  —  creeping  upon  the  track, 
cautiously  studying  the  thickets  ahead  and  at 
the  sides.  Quietly  the  buck  arose,  keeping 
the  fawn  and  doe  between  him  and  the 
implacable  foe  who  stole  so  softly  forward. 
But  the  man  saw  him,  halted  with  a  gesture 
abrupt  and  excited,  and  at  that  the  buck 
leaped  the  windfall  and  was  gone,  snorting 
in  alarm.  A  moment  later  the  woods  were 
rent  with  the  thunders  of  a  gun,  and  a  bullet 
wheened  past  his  ears.  But  he  was  unharmed, 
and,  halting  a  moment,  overmastered  by 
curiosity,  he  saw  the  doe  and  fawn  racing 
after  him,  and  the  man  again  trying  vainly 
for  a  shot.  After  this  the  buck  sought  out 
the  deepest  tangles  for  his  noonday  rest,  and 
the  chaos  of  thicket  and  fallen  timber  through 
which  he  climbed  and  crawled  to  his  repose 
baffled  even  his  most  persistent  foes.  He 
had  a  way  of  flatting  his  horns  on  his  shoul- 
ders, and  creeping,  ferret-like,  under  windfalls 


TERROR.  47 

that  a  man  could  hardly  pass.  Then,  when 
an  enemy  took  up  his  trail,  he  could  hear  him 
afar,  cracking  and  thrashing  through  the 
tangle  long  before  he  came  into  view. 

These  perils  hardly  sweetened,  at  the  best, 
his  sullen,  burly  ways.  He  shouldered  the 
doe  and  fawn  unmercifully  till  the  snows 
deepened,  and  then  he  subsided.  But  his 
greediness  did  not  fail,  and  the  fawn  had 
need  to  be  quick  to  keep  a  dainty  from  this 
conscienceless,  selfish  bully. 

They  joined  the  gathering  herds,  and  with 
six  other  deer  yarded  on  a  slope  above  the 
flats.  The  buck,  strong  and  able,  trod  out 
paths  through  the  deepest  drifts.  When  the 
other  deer  pressed  in  after  him,  he  remorse- 
lessly drove  them  away,  and  left  them  to  their 
own  devices,  to  break  through  the  drifts  if 
they  could.  Also,  when  the  bleak  winds 
screamed  down  the  mountain  from  the  north, 
he  chose  the  spot  most  sheltered,  unmindful 
of  the  trembling  fawn  that  lay  where  it 
might.  He  was  the  bully  —  he  ruled,  and  he 
knew  it. 


48  IN  THE  FOREST. 

A  heavy  storm  swept  over  the  forest,  sift- 
ing a  new  layer  of  snow  upon  the  frozen 
world.  After  it,  the  sun  peeped  out,  it  grew 
warmer,  and  there  was  a  new  gurgle  and 
clinking  in  the  ice-armoured  brooks.  List- 
lessly the  deer  shuffled  up  and  down  the 
yard,  but  the  warmth  had  hardly  stirred 
them  when  the  wind  lifted  anew,  blowing 
with  a  savage  bitterness  from  the  north. 
At  dawn  the  snow  had  crusted,  and  when 
the  big  buck  tried  to  tread  down  new 
paths,  he  cut  himself  unmercifully  about 
the  hoofs.  With  lolling  tongue  he  was 
looking  out  along  the  forest,  debating, 
when  a  wild  cry  —  a  sharp,  querulous  howl- 
ing—  lifted  above  the  murmuring  of  the 
wind  among  the  trees.  Oof — ooo-oooo ! 
Wooo  —  oof —  ooo  / 

It  was  a  dog.  He  drew  himself  together 
with  a  shock.  Nearer  came  the  sound. 
With  wild  eyes  he  looked  along  his  trail. 
The  dog  was  in  the  yard.  It  was  coming! 
Turning  on  his  heel,  he  fled,  and  at  the 
instant  the  voice  of  another  hound  was 


TERROR.  49 

added  to  the  clamour.  Then  he  knew.  His 
old  enemies  had  returned. 

The  buck  shot  down  the  open  path, 
starting  the  other  deer.  He  dashed  among 
them,  pushing  right  and  left,  agonized  in 
the  effort  to  escape,  yet  still  intent  to  lose 
his  track  among  theirs.  But  at  that  in- 
stant a  hound  appeared  in  front;  there 
was  a  wild  babel  of  dreadful  sounds.  He 
saw  the  dog  spring  upon  the  fawn.  It  fell, 
struggled  madly,  and  then  the  hound  wor- 
ried it  upon  the  ground. 

Frenzied,  the  buck  turned  aside.  The 
dog  was  in  his  path,  and  one  stroke  of  his 
sharpened  hoof  would  have  slain  the  crea- 
ture at  its  work.  But  his  own  precious 
life  was  at  risk.  He  fled,  and,  uncon- 
scious of  the  cutting  crust,  crashed  through 
the  forest.  Bump — crash  — bump  —  bump  ! 
In  mad  terror  he  raced  along.  Once  he 
heard  the  fawn  blat  piteously,  and  the  cry 
quickened  him.  But  he  had  hardly  reached 
the  crest  of  the  slope  when  again  he  heard 
a  hound  give  tongue.  He  was  pursued. 


50  IN  THE  FOREST. 

He  saw  the  hound  leap  from  the  last  path 
in  the  yard  and  come  racing  after  him, 
sometimes  galloping  along  the  crust,  and 
again  breaking  through.  The  buck  was 
almost  spent;  the  hound  drew  nearer,  its 
tongue  hanging  from  its  red  and  dripping 
jaws.  At  every  step  it  gave  tongue  till 
the  forest  was  filled  with  the  sound. 

The  buck  could  go  no  farther.  He 
turned,  his  neck  ruffled,  a  red,  ugly  gleam 
in  his  eyes.  He  was  cornered,  driven  to 
his  last  stride,  and  must  fight!  Boo-ooof! 
roared  the  hound.  It  sprang  at  his  throat, 
but  the  treacherous  crust  gave  way,  and 
there  it  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  buck,  wallow- 
ing and  defenceless. 

For  an  instant  there  was  silence.  The 
dog,  bewildered,  lay  there,  the  buck  loom- 
ing above  it.  Then  the  deer  lifted  both 
fore  feet  together,  and  with  a  powerful, 
sweeping  stroke,  beat  it  down.  Again 
and  again  he  struck,  furious.  The  snow 
grew  red  beneath  his  hoofs,  and  silently  he 
kept  on  —  a  wild,  remorseless  destroyer. 


Lifted  both  fore  feet  together,  and  with  a  powerful,  sweeping  stroke 
beat  it  down." 


TERROR.  51 

Before  long  the  huddled  bundle  of  fur  be- 
neath his  feet  neither  moved  nor  made 
sound,  yet  still  he  kept  on.  He  saw  noth- 
ing, heard  nothing.  Fury  possessed  him. 

A  man  appeared  in  the  brush.  He  held 
a  striving  hound  in  leash  —  the  mate  of 
the  one  lying  dead  in  the  snow.  At  sight 
of  the  stamping  buck  the  man  shouted, 
while  his  dog  made  strenuous  efforts  to 
break  away.  "  Down  there ! "  cried  the 
man,  beating  the  creature  about  the  head, 
but  its  efforts  only  grew  more  frantic.  It 
whined,  trembling  with  eagerness,  and  then 
bayed  hoarsely. 

At  the  note  the  buck  halted  an  instant, 
staring  about,  his  awful  fear  renewed.  He 
saw  the  hound  break  from  the  leash  and 
spring  toward  him.  Then,  wheeling,  he 
fled  away  again. 

His  only  chance  was  to  regain  the  yard, 
to  find  the  tracks  of  the  other  deer,  and  to 
turn  the  dog  upon  their  trail.  But  as  he 
circled  down  the  slope,  the  inexorable  crea- 
ture at  his  heels  gaining  at  every  bound, 


52  IN  THE  FOREST. 

he  felt  his  strength  deserting.  He  plunged 
on,  his  tongue  out  and  his  eyes  wavering. 
He  reached  the  yard  and  raced  along  the 
path.  At  the  turn  he  almost  fell  upon 
the  fawn's  inert  body.  Recoiling  in  horror, 
he  turned  down  another  path.  It  ended 
against  a  wall  of  snow,  and  the  dog  was 
close  at  his  heels.  There  was  no  retreat. 
He  leaped  again  upon  the  crust,  and  wal- 
lowed into  a  near-by  path.  Down  this  he 
raced,  and  again  it  led  to  the  fawn.  He 
tried  another  path,  yet  still  could  not  shake 
the  hound  from  his  heels  nor  find  where 
the  other  deer  had  left  the  yard.  Once 
more  he  tried  and  failed  —  and  the  hound 
had  him  by  the  throat.  Blindly  he  strug- 
gled, striking  out  with  both  feet.  One 
crushing  stroke  fell  upon  the  dog;  it  gave 
a  long-drawn  howl  and  fell  before  him. 
Again  he  fell  upon  the  enemy,  striking 
and  slashing  with  his  sharp  fore  feet,  and 
as  he  stood,  crushing  it  beneath  him,  a  rifle 
cracked  in  the  woods.  Then  he  died. 


CHAPTER   III. 

LEGS THE    STORY   OF   A    COYOTE. 

LEGS  was  a  transplanted  theory.  Nor- 
mally, he  was  a  coyote  born  between 
blizzards  somewhere  west  of  the  Little  Mis- 
souri ;  afterward  he  was  an  alien  put  down 
in  Tennessee.  He  came  east  by  way  of 
Wichita,  Kansas,  a  rowdy,  fuzzy  realism 
of  meanness  and  greed,  famine-bred,  and 
with  a  voice  several  octaves  higher  than  any 
harmony  pleasing  to  the  human  ear.  His 
fear  and  hatred  of  man  and  dog  were  in- 
bred. In  the  beginning,  when  he  was  still 
a  gummy-eyed  cub,  a  cowboy  dug  him  and 
his  mother  and  four  others  of  his  kind 
from  an  earth  at  the  bottom  of  a  cut-bank. 
His  first  impression  of  life  was  death  — 
the  cowboy  dragging  him  into  the  indecent 
light  of  day,  where  a  pack  of  sheep-dogs 
was  worrying  the  mangled  body  of  the  old 

53 


54  IN  THE  FOREST. 

she-coyote.  Naturally,  he  had  reason  to 
fear  and  to  hate.  Later,  he  was  thrown 
into  a  pen  at  a  ranch,  where  he  ran  around 
and  around  till  he  was  dizzy.  Then  he 
fell  down  and  howled,  a  habit  he  never 
outgrew. 

The  idea  that  Legs  embodied  was  this. 
On  the  plains  they  credit  the  coyote  with 
the  feet  of  a  centipede  and  the  gait  of  a 
limited  express.  Once  started,  he  is  a  yel- 
low streak  across  the  landscape,  dissolving 
into  the  distance  like  dust  before  a  tor- 
nado. But  in  Tennessee  there  is  a  pack 
of  hounds  that  is  also  a  living  symbol  of 
haste,  bred  down  to  a  perspective  point 
of  twenty  couples  through  two  centuries 
of  dog.  They  are  the  pick  of  their  kind, 
straight-limbed,  full  of  heart  and  fire,  and 
as  true  and  remorseless  on  a  scent  as  the 
inevitable  working  of  fate.  No  red  fox 
can  lose  them  in  the  open,  and  when  scent 
lies  well  they  make  short  work  of  the  lazy 
gray.  So  Legs  came  east  with  others  of 
his  kind  to  try  them  newly  in  their  speed. 


LEGS.  55 

He  was  put  down  in  the  Harris  country 
alone,  still  a  cub  and  with  an  outrageous 
appetite  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  size. 
A  long  box  sunk  into  the  side  of  a  gully 
was  his  home,  and  as  its  outward  end  was 
barred  with  a  grill,  his  first  impressions  of 
the  new  country  were  scant.  But  to  his 
astonishment  food  was  plenty.  Once  every 
day  a  tan-faced  man  with  a  black  beard 
fed  him  beef  bones  such  as  he  had  never 
eaten  before,  and  with  the  fulness  of  food 
in  plenty  his  ribs  filled  out  until  he  was 
like  my  lady's  pug  in  the  parlour.  But  even 
in  prosperity  his  meanness  could  not  wane. 
Whenever  the  man  with  a  beard  brought 
dinner,  Legs  snarled  and  showed  his  teeth, 
and  at  last,  with  the  familiarity  that  breeds 
contempt,  he  helped  himself,  between  bites 
at  the  beef,  to  the  man's  incautious  thumb. 
Instantly  peace  departed.  The  bars  were 
kicked  away,  and  though  he  retreated  snap- 
ping and  snarling  to  the  rear  of  the  ready- 
made  den,  he  was  dragged  forth,  and  with 
a  parting  kick  turned  out  into  the  wide, 


56  IN  THE  FOREST. 

wide  world.  Then  a  new  life  began  for 
Legs. 

In  the  Harris  country  there  are  wide 
reaches  of  open  landscape  seamed  like  a 
wind-chap  with  sharp-cut  gullies.  Big  tim- 
ber, black  swamp,  and  thickets  hem  in 
these  stretches,  prairies  in  miniature.  His 
first  fleeting  impression  was  that  a  kind 
Providence  had  returned  him  to  the  plains. 
But  Legs  had  hardly  stretched  his  eager 
limbs  when  he  brought  up  against  a  neck 
of  woods.  Moreover,  almost  under  his 
pads  was  the  doorstep  of  a  cabin,  a  good 
place  to  prospect  about  midnight,  but  no- 
wise healthy  in  the  full  light  of  day.  A 
dog  barked,  and  he  turned  aside,  slitting 
the  atmosphere  toward  a  hilltop,  where  he 
paused  and  looked  back.  Far  down  in  the 
hollows  he  could  see  the  black-bearded 
man  loping  along  on  a  horse,  and  for  a 
while  he  sat  up  on  his  hams  and  watched. 
Then  the  man  disappeared,  and  he  was  alone. 

Solitude  stretched  about  him.  The  red 
orb  of  the  westering  sun  sank  toward  the 


Far  down  in  the  hollows  he  could  see  the  black-bearded  man  loping 
along  on  a  horse." 


LEGS.  57 

ridges,  twilight  was  coming,  and  long  shad- 
ows reached  forward  from  the  woods. 
Then  that  innate  woe  which  is  the  heri- 
tage of  the  coyote  seized  upon  him,  and 
he  lifted  up  his  thin,  keen  nose  toward 
the  skies.  "  Oh  —  oh-h-h-oo-ooo-hooo  — yi-yi- 
hi!"  he  wailed.  "Oh-ohrhh-yi-yi-hi!"  The 
woods  threw  back  the  sound,  and  a  ready 
answer  came  from  the  farm  dog  far  across 
the  rolling  plain.  Legs  cocked  up  his  ear 
and  listened.  Again  the  honest  dog  bayed 
at  the  shrill  whisper  in  the  evening  wind, 
that  seeking,  tremulous  note  of  misery 
which  the  coyote  voices  from  his  retreat 
in  the  arroyos  and  canons  of  his  native 
West.  At  the  foe's  reply  Legs  ruffled  the 
hair  upon  his  yellow  neck,  snarled  till  his 
teeth  lay  bare,  and  then,  licking  his  lips 
savagely,  linked  away  down  the  slopes. 
But  though  he  showed  this  bravery  toward 
the  unseen  dog,  he  still  kept  an  uneasy 
glance  over  his  shoulder  after  he  had 
slouched  down  into  a  vagabond  walk. 
Hunger  oppressed  him.  Through  the 


58  IN  THE  FOREST. 

death  of  his  mother  he  lacked  early  oppor- 
tunities, and  he  had  never  before  been  cast 
upon  the  world  to  provide  for  himself  both 
food  and  drink.  So  he  howled  anew,  his 
querulous  note  wailing  away  into  the  key 
of  the  night  wind  murmuring  among  the 
trees.  Oh,  such  sorrow!  He  sat  upon 
his  hams  and  pointed  out  the  stars  with 
his  nose,  directing  his  complaint  to  the 
heavens,  an  eerie,  blood-stilling  burst  of 
mad  babbling.  Once  more  he  rose  to  all 
fours  and  slunk  along,  trying  the  wind  in 
all  quarters  for  some  scent  of  an  evening 
meal.  True  to  his  nature,  he  circled  about, 
and  at  length  struck  upon  his  own  track 
leading  from  the  box  where  the  wrathy 
man  had  bounced  him  forth  with  an  em- 
phatic gesture  of  his  boot.  Sneuff!  He 
drew  in  a  taint  of  meat  —  meat  seven  days 
old  and  strong!  With  a  yap  of  delight 
he  raced  along  his  back  track,  and  a  mo- 
ment later  was  munching  a  beef  bone 
before  the  mouth  of  the  old,  familiar  den. 
The  moon  came  out.  He  had  finished 


LEGS.  59 

the  bone,  mumbling  over  the  flintlike 
knuckle  until  at  length  he  reduced  it  to 
pulp.  Then  he  wolfed  down  the  splinters, 
and  looked  about  for  more.  But  there 
was  only  a  little  blood  on  the  gully  sand, 
and  after  licking  this  regretfully  with  his 
sinuous  tongue,  he  desisted  and  turned  his 
mind  to  other  woes.  An  hour  before  the 
only  sorrow  that  the  world  seemed  to  hold 
in  store  was  hunger.  But  now  that  the 
edge  of  appetite  was  blunted,  he  found 
room  for  other  griefs.  Oh,  how  solitary 
he  felt!  Once  more  he  squatted  on  his 
hams,  his  fore  paws  planted  before  him,  and 
yowled.  But  it  did  no  good.  The  vast 
solitude  took  up  and  drowned  his  voice, 
and  there  was  no  answering  cry  of  a  fellow 
coyote.  No  doubt  he  wondered  that  there 
should  be  no  mate  anywhere  in  the  world. 
For  an  hour  he  rasped  his  throat,  and  at 
length,  with  a  last  disconsolate  tremolo, 
ceased,  and  curled  up  in  his  den. 

Morning  came,  and  he  lay  at  the  mouth 
of   the  box,  blinking  at    the   light.     It  was 


60  IN  THE  FOREST. 

not  good,  he  knew,  to  keep  such  hours, 
but  then  he  had  an  instinctive  notion  that 
the  black-bearded  man  might  return.  But 
the  day  passed,  and  he  was  not  disturbed. 
At  nightfall  he  went  forth  again  in  search 
of  food,  but,  save  for  an  indefinable  scent 
of  the  blood  in  the  gully  sand,  he  could 
find  no  suggestion  of  dinner.  The  best 
he  could  do  was  to  sniff  this  ghost  of  the 
repast ;  and,  tortured  by  its  hollow  mock- 
ery, he  loped  to  the  nearest  hilltop  and 
yelped  discords  up  and  down  the  darkness. 
In  his  heart  he  hated  the  silence  and 
strove  to  destroy  it.  But  in  the  end,  si- 
lence gained  the  upper  hand;  and,  dis- 
gusted, he  slunk  off  among  the  gullies. 

A  week  passed,  and  famine  touched  him. 
He  looked  at  his  ribs  reflectively,  and  won- 
dered when  they  would  burst  through  his 
matted  hide.  Within,  his  vitals  seemed 
tied  in  a  double  knot  that  each  day  drew 
tighter.  Then  a  kind  Providence  directed 
his  steps  toward  a  distant  field,  where  a 
dead  crow  swung  from  a  stick  in  the  midst 


LEGS.  61 

of  the  withered  corn.  Time  and  the  wind 
and  weather  had  fairly  desiccated  the 
scrawny  bird,  until  it  was  like  dust  in  his 
mouth.  But  he  munched  it  ravenously, 
and  with  hope  reviving  cast  about  through 
the  fields. 

Once  more  he  had  squatted  on  a  hilltop, 
and  was  about  to  raise  his  song  of  woe, 
sorrowful  like  Ruth  among  the  alien,  when 
something  stayed  him.  A  cattle  path 
stretched  tortuously  down  the  hill,  and  in 
the  sharp  moonlight  he  saw  a  shadowy 
creature  tripping  between  the  walls  of 
grass.  A  rabbit !  He  remembered  that 
long  ago  some  one  had  thrown  a  live  one 
into  his  pen  at  the  ranch.  All  quivering, 
he  crouched,  and  at  the  movement,  the 
oncoming  quarry,  startled,  bounced  aside, 
and  with  tremendous  leaps  sped  away  into 
the  darkness.  Before  Legs  had  quite 
made  up  his  mind  what  to  do  his  dinner 
had  fled,  and,  mad  with  anguish,  he  howled 
till  the  hills  mocked  him  with  ghastly 
echoes. 


62  IN  THE  FOREST. 

But  if  there  was  one  rabbit,  why  not  more  ? 
Hunger  had  sharpened  his  wits.  He  lolled 
down  the  slope,  treading  cautiously,  and  pass- 
ing a  fence,  peered  out  into  a  cotton-field. 

There  was  a  rabbit ! 

Step  by  step  Legs  stole  toward  it.  He 
saw  poor  Molly  Cotton  settle  down,  saw  her 
big  eyes  grow  bright  with  terror,  fascinated 
at  his  approach.  One  step  —  two  —  three. 
He  gave  a  great  bounce  and  landed,  snap- 
ping eagerly  with  his  distended  jaws,  and  — 
What  misery  disappointments  hold  in  store ! 
What  sorrows  anticipation  brings!  His 
teeth  met  in  the  ground,  and  away  in  the 
distance  Bunny  streaked,  gone  away  with 
the  speed  of  fear.  Legs  gazed  with  sorrow- 
ing heart  about  him.  He  snuffed  at  the 
rabbit's  form,  still  warm  from  the  heat  of  her 
fur,  still  redolent  of  the  dinner  that  was  not. 
The  voice  of  Legs  grew  so  strong  in  misery 
that  a  watch-dog  heard,  and  came  bouncing 
forth,  his  hair  on  end,  and  baying  stridently. 
Then  the  coyote  fled,  and  at  the  edge  of  the 
swamp  bounced  another  rabbit,  almost  from 


LEGS.  63 

under  foot.  With  an  eager  yelp  he  forgot 
the  dog  and  pursued.  But  the  cotton-tail 
knew  its  work,  and  leaped,  full-gaited,  into 
the  thickness  of  a  briar  patch.  A  streamer 
of  thorns  raked  Legs  across  the  nose, 
another  streaked  him  across  the  eyes,  and 
"yip-ki-ki — yap"  he  halted,  all  fours  planted 
forward  to  stop  him.  Then,  after  ruefully 
rubbing  his  nose,  he  slunk  home  to  his  den, 
hunger  griping  anew  within  him  and  dis- 
appointment adding  to  its  vigour. 

Experience  teaches.  Legs  studied  out 
the  problem,  and,  when  night  fell  again,  he 
was  at  the  edge  of  the  cotton-field,  waiting. 
He  lay  crouched,  lurking  in  the  shadow,  and 
poor  Bunny  came  trotting  down  her  accus- 
tomed run.  Darkness  clothed  the  tragedy. 
Who  heard  the  sharp  squeal  of  anguish,  the 
flurry  among  the  leaves,  and  after  that  the 
scrunch  of  tender  bone  and  the  low  growl 
and  guzzling  of  the  slayer?  Only  Legs. 
He  slouched  away  afterward,  grinning,  and 
licking  his  bloody  chops.  Again  and  again 
a  similar  tragedy  was  repeated. 


64  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Time  passed.  Legs  took  to  roaming.  He 
learned  the  openings,  and  stretched  away 
ten  miles  or  more  on  a  jaunt.  He  passed 
out  of  the  Harris  country,  trafficked  through 
the  bottoms  to  Coles's  Pond,  or  northwest- 
ward into  the  Sard  is  ranges.  One  night 
he  rollicked  up  from  the  lowlands,  slunk 
through  a  deep  gully,  and  rushed  the  bank. 
Terror !  Right  before  him  was  a  big  house, 
all  ablaze  with  lights,  and  a  sudden  babel  of 
dog  music  nearly  deafened  him.  With  his 
scrubby  brush  trailing  low,  he  fled  at  full 
speed.  But  curiosity  got  the  better  of  him. 
He  sneaked  back  to  the  hill  and  looked. 
Men  —  yes  —  and  dogs ;  many  of  them.  At 
this  point  he  moved  out  of  the  neighbour- 
hood. 

One  night  in  the  Harris  country  Legs 
sat  upon  a  hill,  offering  his  usual  obbli- 
gato  to  the  skies,  when  a  sudden  answer 
near  threw  him  out  of  his  wits.  "  Oo-oh-hh- 
yi-yi!n  With  a  complimentary  howl,  a  sud- 
den burst  of  piping  music,  he  slipped  down 
the  hill,  leaped  a  gully,  and  raced  toward  the 


11  Legs. 


LEGS.  65 

voice  that  was  cutting  the  night  silence  into 
finger  bits. 

It  was  another  coyote ! 

Sniff !  Legs  dropped  to  a  dignified  walk 
and  approached.  Ten  feet  away  he  dropped 
on  his  hams,  and  with  lolling  tongue  gazed 
in  apparent  unconcern  at  this  other  stray. 
Also,  the  other  affected  unconcern. 

Sniff !  They  approached.  With  the  gen- 
tlemanly inclinations  of  the  coyote,  each 
showed  its  teeth.  Then  they  trotted  apart, 
performed  a  few  bars  of  night  music,  and 
returned.  Each  was  disposed  to  hold  pleas- 
ing discourse  with  the  other,  to  talk  over 
things,  and  to  seek  solace  in  this  solitude. 
But  of  a  sudden  each  discovered  that  the 
other  was  not  a  fair  visitant  —  not  of  the 
weaker  influential  sex  —  and  with  that  each 
took  hold.  The  stranger  coyote  possessed 
himself  of  Legs's  ear,  while  Legs  took  a 
comfortable  hold  of  the  other's  fore  leg  and 
scrunched.  The  fur  flew,  but  the  stranger, 
losing  interest,  withdrew  his  leg  at  the 
earliest  opportunity  and  decamped.  Min- 


66  IN  THE  FOREST. 

utes  later  he  sat  in  the  distance,  mocking 
the  victor's  song  of  triumph. 

Legs  spent  the  night  and  the  following 
day  trying  all  the  gullies.  He  hoped,  no 
doubt,  to  find  more  congenial  kin.  But 
though  there  was  a  she-coyote  and  her  cubs 
working  the  ranges  still  farther  at  the  west, 
he  could  find  only  her  half-obliterated  trail. 
Again  and  again  she  heard  the  voice  of  Legs 
saw-filing  the  night  away,  but,  mindful  of 
her  cubs  and  the  homicidal  appetite  of  a 
strange  and  hungry  coyote,  she  purposely 
gave  no  answer.  So  once  more  Legs  fared 
homeward  across  the  big  gullies  —  home 
again  to  the  Harris  range. 

Life,  so  far,  had  been  filled  with  leisure 
for  Legs.  But  now  he  was  to  hustle  for  a 
living  —  not  only  for  a  living,  but,  indeed, 
for  life  itself.  Impudent  and  sleek,  fatly 
fed  upon  the  unfortunate  rabbits,  he  turned 
to  other  fare,  and  in  an  incautious  moment 
helped  himself  to  a  goose  from  a  distant 
farm.  He  got  away  with  the  honker,  but 
near  paid  for  it  with  his  life  when  the 


LEGS.  67 

farmer  saw  him  again.  As  Legs  perched 
insolently  upon  a  neighbouring  mound,  re- 
flecting what  a  sudden  dash  might  accom- 
plish among  the  geese  in  the  barnyard,  the 
farmer  saw  him  and  approached.  Legs 
arose,  insolent  as  ever,  yawned,  and  kept 
his  distance.  He  was  trotting  off  in  surly 
contempt  when  the  man  let  go  at  him  with 
a  shotgun,  and  when  the  forward  pellets 
struck,  Legs  performed  some  surprising 
movements,  howled  strenuously,  and  fled  at 
full  speed.  Only  a  shot  or  so  had  touched 
him,  and  no  doubt  he  outran  the  rest.  Also 
he  had  learned  the  lesson  that  there  are 
some  things  in  the  world  that  even  the  legs 
of  a  coyote  cannot  outpace. 

A  shrill  baying  disturbed  his  reflections. 
Legs  loped  to  the  nearest  hilltop  and  looked 
back.  He  saw  the  farmhouse  hound  draw 
on,  hot-paced,  along  the  breast-high  scent. 
For  a  moment  he  watched  the  lumbering 
chase,  saw  the  hound  range  the  hill  and 
come  rollicking  toward  the  slope,  crying 
eagerly  as  the  scent  grew  warmer  still. 


68  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Amused  ?  Legs  felt  his  ruffled  feelings 
fade  as  he  marked  his  clumsy  foe  come  pad- 
dling onward.  Then  he  went  down  into 
the  dry  sand  of  a  gully,  and  tied  his  trail  in 
knots.  After  this  he  took  a  side  leap,  and 
with  his  tail  airily  on  high,  went  elsewhere, 
while  the  baffled  hound  whimpered,  at  a  loss. 
Legs  had  the  fun  of  his  life  whenever  the 
farm  hound  was  abroad.  Sometimes,  when 
life  hung  lazily  upon  him,  he  slipped  over 
to  the  farmhouse,  and  mocked  the  baying 
dog.  He  sat  upon  the  hilltops  waiting,  and 
when  the  hound  came  forth,  contemptu- 
ously showed  himself.  But  the  hound  never 
learned.  At  full  cry  he  gave  chase  to  this 
phantom  of  speed,  this  yellow  something 
that  for  a  while  played  on  before,  to  depart 
at  last,  a  shadow  flying  across  the  land- 
scape. Sometimes  Legs  ran  around  the 
hill,  worked  his  patterns  in  a  sand  gully, 
and  then  sat  at  the  crest  watching  the  baf- 
fled hound  at  work  below.  Once  he  led  the 
hound  a  ten-mile  chase  across  the  chap- 
marked  land  to  a  gully  where  he  had  found 


LEGS.  69 

another  box  sunk  into  a  bank.  Here  he 
backed  down,  and  when  the  hound  tried 
with  gallant  eagerness  to  snatch  him  forth, 
Legs  sank  his  fangs  deep  into  the  nose  of 
the  harrying  foe.  When  Legs  chose  to  let 
go  the  nose  was  abruptly  withdrawn,  ac- 
companied by  remarks  in  a  shrill  treble, 
ending  with  painful  ki-yis.  Yet  this,  the 
hour  of  triumph,  was  the  beginning  of  the 
end. 

The  hound  came  home  sore-footed  and 
smeared  with  blood.  "  Barb  wiah,  shuah, 
sah ! "  said  the  farmer.  Then,  after  re- 
flection :  "  No,  sah,  not  wiah,  but  that 
damned  coyo-tajy/"  So  formal  complaint 
was  lodged  against  Legs,  and  horse  and 
hound  went  up  against  him. 

Legs  lay  at  the  head  of  a  gully,  consider- 
ing his  digestion  and  the  last  Molly  Cotton 
that  had  come  up  the  trail.  His  yellow 
eyes,  blinking  through  their  narrow  slits, 
were  dull  with  sleep  and  the  fulness  of  a 
square  meal.  Satisfaction  filled  him  with 
gentle  repose,  and  he  yawned,  stretching 


70  IN  THE  FOREST. 

his  jaws  till  the  serried  fangs  stood  out- 
ward, gleaming  in  relief  against  his  scarlet 
tongue.  "  Ye-ah !  "  he  yawned,  stretching 
a  hind  leg.  He  rolled  over  anew,  and  was 
settling  into  his  sandy  bed  when  something 
awoke  him  with  a  start.  He  cocked  one 
ear  and  listened.  A  note  of  snarling  horn 
music  rang  across  the  opening.  It  harked 
like  the  baying  of  a  distant  hound,  and  Legs 
arose.  He  wondered  whether  his  old  friend 
from  the  farm  was  on  the  trail  anew,  and 
a  shade  of  annoyance  ruffled  up  his  brows. 
Again  the  horn  sounded.  He  trotted  to 
his  favourite  hilltop,  and,  squatting  upon  his 
hams,  peered  into  the  valley  below.  A 
horseman  appeared —  another — then  another 
—  and  more.  Black  dots  moved  among 
them  —  they  were  hounds  ;  more  than  he  had 
ever  seen  before.  Their  tails,  upright,  waved 
among  the  grasstops ;  they  cast  wide,  work- 
ing up  and  down  the  open  and  along  all  the 
edge  of  the  distant  swamp.  A  faint  shout 
reached  his  ears  —  "  Hi-ii-i !  Kimrie,  hi ! 
Hike !  Trailer  —  on !  Bright  Eyes,  there  !  " 


LEGS.  71 

He  saw  the  tan-faced  man  with  the  black 
beard  laying  on  the  hounds,  and  with  a  sud- 
den start  Legs  remembered  that  his  rabbit- 
hunting  had  led  him  at  dawn  along  that 
selfsame  swamp  edge. 

A  hound  gave  tongue,  a  nervous,  whim- 
pering tone,  yet  eager  and  ready.  At  the 
voice,  Legs  saw  a  chocolate-spotted  hound, 
full-shouldered  and  big,  with  lop  ears  and 
sloping  shoulders,  drive  apart  from  the 
pack,  and  fare  about  alone.  He  saw  this 
hound  range  out  into  the  open,  up  the  wind, 
and  heard  again  the  cry  —  "  Hike  !  Kimrie !  " 

Again  a  hound  gave  tongue.  "  Hi  —  on, 
Trailer  —  hunt  him  out !  "  Kimrie,  off  at 
one  side,  loped  along  abreast,  ready  to  burst 
away  in  front  if  the  pack  should  find,  and 
content  to  let  the  others  work.  But  the 
scent  was  cold,  and  the  trailing  slow.  Legs, 
from  his  hilltop,  saw  the  pack  overrun  his 
morning  track,  and  grinned.  But  elation 
was  short-lived.  The  pack  cast  back,  and 
higher  up  the  wind.  "Ki-yeow!"  bayed 
the  impatient  puppies,  falling  upon  the  in- 


72  IN  THE  FOREST. 

definable  scent.  Farther  out  was  Kimrie 
ranging,  at  work  at  last,  but  all  on  his  own 
account.  He  pushed  on.  Below,  Trailer 
was  working  out  the  knotted  skein,  the 
meandering  of  Legs  in  search  of  a  dinner. 
"  Yow-yap  / "  voiced  the  eager  ones,  then 
"  Kow — aaow-yi-yi  —  buh-ooo-oo-oooh — yi-yi- 
ki-iii-i  /"  Kimrie  had  found,  a  breast-high 
scent  hardly  half  an  hour  old. 

The  rest  tolled  in,  all  adding  their  voices 
to  the  turmoil.  Legs  from  his  hilltop  saw 
the  riders  •  take  in  their  fretting  hunters, 
waiting  for  the  last  bunch  to  get  away. 
Up  the  crest  streamed  the  rabble  of  hounds, 
harked  on  by  the  man  with  the  beard ;  and 
the  woods  gave  back  in  babbling  echoes  the 
music  of  the  pack  as  it  went  away  at  speed. 

Legs  concluded  it  was  time  to  move. 
Whatever  they  were  trailing  might  come 
along  his  way,  and  —  Heavens,  it  was  him- 
self they  were  running !  Over  the  crest  of 
the  hill  came  the  chocolate-spotted  hound, 
Kimrie,  far  in  the  lead.  "  Ba-ow-ww-yi- 
yi!"  he  yawped,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  Legs. 


LEGS.  73 

It  was  no  time  for  pleasantries.  Legs  som- 
ersaulted over  the  edge  of  the  bank,  struck 
the  gully  bottom,  and  stretched  himself. 
He  fled  along  the  hollow  swifter  than  a  tur- 
key buzzard's  shadow  on  a  hillside,  his  ears 
flat  back,  and  his  hind  feet  ahead  of  his  nose 
at  every  stride.  No  time  now  to  double 
and  twist  in  the  sand.  Slinking  Kimrie  had 
bounced  him  too  close  for  that,  or  for  any 
other  tricks,  yet  a  while.  Life,  now,  was 
in  his  speed ;  he  must  stretch  country  be- 
tween him  and  the  babbling  pack  before  he 
could  try  precious  moments  for  a  baffling 
side  jump  or  for  tangled  tracks  in  the  sand 
gullies.  So  he  stretched  away  to  the  north. 
Far  away  he  halted,  turned,  and  cocked 
up  an  ear.  A  faint  echo  of  the  pack  sounded 
at  the  rear.  His  run  up  the  gully  sand  had 
checked  them  a  bit,  but  instinct  told  him 
that  they  had  trailed  him  out  anew,  and 
even  now  were  screaming  in  pursuit.  His 
jaw  wrinkled,  showing  all  his  fangs  in  con- 
tempt and  hatred.  But  if  he  were  to  throw 
off  this  harrying  crew,  he  must  be  at  work. 


74  IN  THE  FOREST. 

He  slipped  down,  then,  into  the  nearest 
gully,  and  danced  a  minuet  through  the  sun- 
baked sands,  and  at  the  end,  with  a  tall  leap, 
jumped  the  bank  and  departed. 

From  the  heights  he  looked  down.  He 
saw  the  pack,  strung  out  into  three  big 
bunches,  stream  up  the  slope  and  turn  in,  at 
full  cry,  through  the  gully  gap.  High-voiced 
Kimrie  and  his  followers  charged  along,  over- 
ran the  scent,  dropped  their  voicing  to  a 
whimper,  circled,  and  fell  all  at  fault.  Legs 
sniffed  disdainfully.  He  watched  the  worry- 
ing hounds  cast  about  afresh,  and  presently 
the  hunt  came  thundering  toward  the  check. 
"  Hike !  —  on,  Kimrie  —  on,  Trailer  —  hi-ii ! 
—  Bright  Eyes  —  Jake  ! " 

No  use.  Legs's  plane  geometry  laid  out 
upon  the  deadening  sand  had  them  all  at 
fault.  But  presently  he  saw  the  pack  drawn 
off,  and  cast  again  in  a  big  circle.  Its  sphere 
drew  perilously  close  to  the  watching  coyote, 
and,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  he  trotted  on. 
But  once  more  a  chocolate-spotted  hound  — 
the  inevitable  Kimrie  —  appeared  before  him. 


LEGS.  75 

The  hound  was  ranging  far ;  he  had  cut  off 
the  straight  line  that  Legs  had  set  toward 
the  distant  Sardis  range,  the  straight  line 
that  every  coyote  takes  when  a  hunt  is  on 
his  trail,  and  Legs,  to  escape,  was  forced  to 
circle  wide.  The  move  was  almost  fatal. 
The  other  hounds,  drawing  on,  cut  corners, 
and  once  he  was  nearly  headed.  No  more 
circling  after  this,  thought  Legs,  as  he 
streaked  away  to  the  Whitney  place,  where 
there  was  sanctuary  in  a  box  across  the  rail- 
road track.  Gasping  and  blown,  his  heart 
burning  in  his  breast  like  a  live  coal,  he 
reached  the  box,  leaped  into  its  shelter,  and 
had  hardly  turned  when  the  hounds  were 
baying  fiercely  at  the  opening. 

They  took  up  the  hounds  and  went  away. 
Legs's  last  view  of  them  was  the  black- 
bearded  man  peering  purple-faced  through 
the  door  of  his  retreat.  "  Got  off,  eh  ?  But 
what  we'll  do  to  you  the  next  time,  mind 
you,  '11  be  a  plenty!"  But  Legs  resolved 
that  he'd  have  no  such  heart-burning  again. 
He  would  see  to  that,  he  would. 


76  IN  THE  FOREST. 

A  fortnight  passed.  Legs,  undisturbed, 
took  up  life  on  the  big  hilly  plain  above  the 
railroad.  Once  or  twice  they  heard  him  sing- 
ing down  the  moon,  and  made  plans  for  the 
pack  to  bounce  him  out  again.  But  with 
the  change  of  the  moon  he  turned  back  to 
the  Harris  country,  where  a  dead  cow  lay  in 
a  gully  and  there  were  more  rabbits  in  the 
runs.  Here  at  last  they  found  him  again. 
From  his  coign  of  vantage  he  saw  the  hounds 
laid  on;  Kimrie,  as  usual,  ranging  up  the 
wind.  Disgraceful,  he  thought.  Here  he 
had  just  dined  fitly  upon  the  post-mortem 
cow,  and  was  in  no  mood  or  condition  to  go 
streaking  across  the  country.  So  he  made  a 
bolt  for  the  nearest  den-box,  but,  by  ill  chance, 
drew  near  it  just  as  a  bunch  of  stragglers 
came  ripping  up  the  gully.  With  his  tail 
flying  low,  he  turned  and  fled  away,  laying 
his  chest  to  the  ground,  and  fairly  sobbing  at 
every  stride.  Three  miles  of  this,  however, 
warmed  him  up ;  he  ran  more  easily,  and 
again,  ahead  of  the  chase,  dashed  into  sanc- 
tuary, safe. 


LEGS.  77 

It  was  a  good  run  —  too  good,  in  fact,  for 
the  health  of  Legs.  Though  he  knew  it  not, 
he  was  a  marked  coyote.  He  made  good 
sport,  and  that  settled  it.  They  ran  him  at 
every  chance.  Life  became  a  continual  tor- 
ment. He  went  back  to  the  Sardis  country, 
was  bounced  anew,  and  streaking  back  toward 
the  railroad,  circled  wide  to  reach  the  box. 
But  Kimrie  must  have  learned.  When  Legs 
galloped  on  in  a  big  circle,  Kimrie  shot 
across  on  the  chord,  and  blocked  the  runway 
to  the  box.  There  was  nothing  left  for  Legs 
but  to  stream  off  anew  toward  the  Harris 
range.  So  back  he  went,  and,  half  dead, 
made  the  box  —  his  first  home  —  just  in  the 
nick  of  time  to  save  his  hide  from  the  lead- 
ing bunch  of  hounds. 

Then  the  dry  weather  set  in,  and  Legs 
took  heart  again.  The  trailing  was  slow, 
and  often  the  pack  were  at  loss  to  work  their 
noses  on  the  brittle,  dusty  ground.  So  he 
sat  on  the  hilltops  watching,  and  his  old 
contempt  returned.  Once  he  grew  big  with 
daring  and  showed  himself.  Wild  with 


78  IN  THE  FOREST. 

excitement,  the  leaders  burst  into  cry,  but 
their  speed  was  no  match  for  his  preliminary 
spurt.  He  lost  them  easily  in  the  first  big 
gully,  and  then  sat  down  hard  by  while  they 
puzzled  and  whimpered  over  the  trail.  Pres- 
ently he  went  rabbit  hunting,  quite  con- 
vinced that  he  was  supreme. 

The  weather  changed.  The  top  soil  fresh- 
ened with  dampness,  and  the  old  trails  and 
tracts  in  the  sand  were  washed  to  a  level. 
Once  more  Legs  heard  the  snarling  of  the 
horn,  the  shrill  cries  of  the  hunt,  the  dog 
music,  and  the  thudding  of  hoofs  as  the 
riders  came  faring  along.  He  arose  and 
lunged  sullenly  to  the  hill-crest.  The  pack 
was  streaming  wide.  He  saw  the  old  hounds 
working  on  ahead,  the  puppies  babbling  now 
and  then  at  their  heels.  But  Kimrie  —  where 
was  Kimrie?  Look  there — up  along  the  hill! 
See  that  sharp  tail  carried  high,  that  quick 
form  working  through  the  grass.  There  was 
Kimrie,  and  the  coyote  bounced  forth  with 
the  self-working  hound  almost  upon  him. 

Away  they  went,  short  shift  for  Legs.    Far 


LEGS.  79 

away  —  a  good  ten  miles  —  was  the  Whitney 
place,  for  the  pack  was  already  between  him 
and  his  old-time  home,  the  box  in  the  gully 
bank.  It  was  afternoon.  Legs  had  slept  off 
his  last  heavy  meal,  and  was  lean  and  fresh. 
He  leaped  to  the  nearest  gully,  raced  up  the 
sand,  and  jumped  the  bank.  But  the  top 
surface  broke  beneath  his  eager  pads,  leav- 
ing a  damp,  hot  trail  behind.  Instinctively 
he  knew  it,  and  a  fierce  dread  came  into  his 
heart.  Stretching  out  into  the  open,  he  fled 
away,  the  whole  pack  bunched  and  close  upon 
his  heels.  Away  —  away  toward  the  Sardis 
ranges  —  to  the  deep  gullies  beyond  —  to 
the  hard  ground  and  the  sheeplands  where 
he  might  baffle  pursuit.  His  perils  oppressed 
him.  He  shot  away,  forgetting  to  save  his 
strength.  The  crying  voices  hurried  in  his 
train,  and  there  ahead  —  desperation!  —  a 
patch  of  heavy  timber  blocked  him.  He 
turned  in  full  view.  There  was  no  other 
chance  —  his  instinctive  choice  of  open  coun- 
try forced  him.  The  hounds,  in  full  sight, 
cut  corners.  He  strained  his  muscles,  flying 


8o  IN  THE  FOREST. 

at  dizzy  speed  across  pasture  and  heavy 
plough.  Beyond  was  his  sanctuary,  but  the 
pack  was  creeping  up.  Two  centuries  of 
blood  and  breeding  against  a  pariah  of  count- 
less starveling  generations.  The  strain  told. 
Over  his  shoulder  he  saw  them  coming,  and 
in  the  rear  the  tan-faced  man  of  the  black 
beard  urging  onward  a  wide-gaited  thorough- 
bred. Others  plied  at  his  heels.  Terror 
was  in  the  heart  of  Legs  —  Legs,  the  thief, 
pariah,  alien.  Oh,  for  a  sanctuary !  He 
swung  circling  toward  the  box  beside  the 
railroad,  and  —  there  was  Kimrie  backed  up 
by  the  black  hound  Trailer.  Wisely  they 
had  cut  the  corner ;  again  he  was  headed  off. 
There  was  no  other  way.  He  must  lead  the 
mad  chase  far  away.  But,  perhaps  —  His 
memory  recalled  the  haunts  in  Sardis  many 
miles  beyond.  Speed  now  was  his  only  hope. 
The  climb  to  the  hilltop  was  stiff,  but  it  left 
the  heavy  hounds  behind.  He  took  fresh 
hope,  but  short-lived  indeed.  They  were  on 
him  anew.  No  use.  He  must  turn  and 
fight,  and  against  what  odds ! 


LEGS.  8 1 

He  leaped  into  the  nearest  gully,  looking 
for  a  niche  to  back  down  so  that  he  might 
fight  them  off  in  front.  He  ran  up  and 
down,  seeking.  But  the  blank  walls  of  sand 
faced  him  on  every  side.  A  bunch  of  hounds 
sailed  into  view,  and  headlong  plunged  into 
the  gulch.  Backing  into  a  bush,  his  paws 
before  him,  Legs  snapped  snarling  at  the  fore- 
most. 

"  Bow-ow-ow  / "  roared  a  heavy  bass  of 
hound  music.  Legs  stood  there  at  bay,  his 
dripping  fangs  shown  in  menace  to  the 
leaders.  They  fell  back  an  instant,  then  over 
the  bank  raced  Kimrie  and  at  his  flank  was 
black  Trailer.  The  couple  leaped  upon  him. 
He  set  back,  and  one  had  him  by  the  throat. 
Then  the  cloud  of  hounds  flung  themselves 
upon  the  fight.  He  struck  right  and  left 
with  his  fangs,  the  teeth  clicking  as  they  met 
in  flesh  and  fur.  Trailer  he  bit  through  the 
face,  and  the  hound  snatched  off,  only  to  fall 
on  far  more  savagely,  and  with  a  wide  leap 
Kimrie  launched  himself  on  the  coyote's  back, 
silent  and  dreadful.  Legs  bit  him  in  the 


82  IN  THE  FOREST. 

flank,  but  the  hound  gave  no  heed.  He 
sunk  his  teeth  to  the  coyote's  spine,  there 
was  a  sharp  scrunch,  and  the  pariah  and 
thief  was  done.  He  fell  back,  his  haunches 
trailing  useless,  and  that  was  the  end. 
Though  he  still  bit  and  fought  about,  the 
crushing  pack  fell  upon  him.  Once  he 
howled. 

Over  the  hill  came  the  horsemen,  thunder- 
ing down  the  slope.  Legs,  in  the  midst  of 
the  baying  hounds,  was  fighting  —  but  weakly 
—  to  the  last.  With  the  last  show  of 
strength  he  turned  upon  a  puppy,  and  bit 
it  on  the  ear.  Then  the  pack  buried  him 
under,  and  he  struck  no  more. 

Thus  ends  the  story  of  Legs. 


"Over  the  bank  raced  Kimrie.   .   .   .     Then  the  cloud  of  hounds  flung 
themselves  upon  the  fight." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

TRAGEDY THE    STORY   OF    A   MOOSE. 

OVER  there  in  the  north  by  the  edge  of 
the  upper  Ottawa  lies  a  chain  of  ponds 
lost  in  the  heart  of  solitude.  Murmuring 
sedges  rim  their  turgid  waters,  and  summer 
sheets  them  with  a  rank,  sick  greenery  of 
matted  lily  pads.  Around  lies  a  waste  of 
bush  —  on  one  side  the  swamps  of  the  black 
Beauchene;  on  the  other,  a  wide  sweep  of 
heavy  timber  choked  with  torn  and  broken 
windfalls.  Here  track  the  moose,  crossing 
from  shore  to  shore,  gorging  on  the  lush  and 
spongy  lily  roots,  or  wallowing  in  the  mal- 
odorous mud.  Peace  is  theirs.  Few  jour- 
ney in  this  wild,  and  there  they  grow  —  big 
moose,  the  bulls  with  antlers  spreading  an 
arm's  breadth  across. 

Chabot  —  Chabot  of  the  Algonquins  —  sat 
at  his  cabin  door.     Below,  on  the  shore  of 

83 


84  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Bumb  Creek,  his  canoe  lay  beached,  still 
piled  with  his  pack,  an  axe,  and  three  rusty 
bear  traps.  He  had  just  come  down  from 
the  north  —  from  the  Beauchene — and  his 
larrikins  showed  it.  One  was  as  full  of  holes 
as  a  rotten  rabbit  blanket,  and  the  other 
dragged  behind  a  disconsolate,  flapping  sole. 
As  Chabot  said  explosively  with  an  oath,  the 
Beauchene  was  a  place  to  send  an  enemy, 
but  never  to  take  a  friend.  "  Moccasin  dam 
gone !  "  he  exclaimed,  ruefully  reflecting  upon 
the  condition  of  his  footgear.  In  a  bucket 
at  his  elbow  stood  a  new  pair,  fresh  from  the 
H.  B.  store,  soaking  against  the  time  when 
he  should  try  them  on.  But  presently  his 
face  lightened,  and  his  air  of  slow  dejection 
vanished  like  a  cloud  before  the  summer  sun. 
"  See  um  moose,"  said  he  —  this  to  Peter, 
heir  of  all  the  Chabots.  "  See  um  one,  two, 
four  moose  —  one  big,  dam  bull!"  Peter 
evinced  a  proper  interest,  but  Chabot  had 
halted,  again  studying  the  deplorable  condi- 
tion of  his  moccasins.  From  this  he  turned 
to  an  inspection  of  the  larrikins  soaking  in 


TRAGEDY.  85 

the  bucket.  Having  turned  the  water  out  of 
them,  he  tried  on  the  pair,  thrusting  his  feet 
into  their  soggy  depths.  Then  he  arose, 
squashing  the  leather  into  shape  with  a  grunt 
of  satisfaction. 

"  How  big  dat  moose  ? "  demanded  Peter, 
desiring  accurate  information. 

"  Um  —  dunno.  Mebbe  so  big  bimeby  — 
dunno."  He  spread  his  arms  to  denote  the 
width  of  antlers,  and  Peter,  in  derision, 
grinned.  But  Chabot  gave  no  heed  to  the 
doubting  of  his  heir.  "  Big  moose,  dat.  Mos' 
big  moose  I  ever  saw."  He  turned  slowly 
toward  the  north,  his  fat,  bland  face  staring 
into  the  direction  of  the  distant  Beauchene. 
"  Bimeby  I  go  call  dat  moose.  Mattawa  fel- 
ler give  me  'leven  —  twenty  —  forty  dollar. 
I  kill  um  dat  moose.  Dunno  —  go  shoot  urn 
dat  moose,  sure  'miff." 

Peter  still  sat,  scratching  his  head  in 
thought.  A  month  before,  by  the  judicious 
trading  of  certain  mink  and  musquash  skins 
and  an  otter  pelt,  he  had  become  possessed 
of  a  gun.  It  was  an  archaic  arm,  a  relic  of 


86  IN  THE  FOREST. 

bygone  days,  and  was  calculated  to  slay  all 
within  its  neighbourhood  without  discrimina- 
tion in  favour  of  its  owner.  But  Peter,  having 
tried  it  with  disastrous  effect  on  a  neighbour's 
geese,  was  eager  to  use  it  on  the  moose,  a 
quarry  yet  to  fall  before  him. 

"  Bimeby,"  said  Peter,  thoughtfully,  "bime- 
by  I  go  kill  um  dat  moose  myself." 

"Hunh!"  exclaimed  Chabot,  with  scorn 
and  disgust.  "  Bimeby  I  take  um  club." 
He  reached  out,  and  with  a  brawny  hand  in 
Peter's  hair,  his  oily,  black,  and  tangled  hair, 
lifted  Peter  to  his  feet. 

"  Sure,"  said  Chabot,  "  sure  you  go  up  in 
Beauchene,  sartin  you  get  lost.  Bimeby  you 
run  round  holler.  Bimeby  you  fall  down. 
Den  muckwa^  come,  and  den  Peter  goo'-by. 
You  try  dat,  sartin  I  take  um  club." 

Peter  frowned  in  recollection  of  that  club. 
More  than  once  he  had  felt  it  play  a  lively 
staccato  upon  his  ribs  —  a  sore  memory  that 
still  stirred  his  imagination.  But  even  so, 
he  ached  to  go  north  into  the  Beauchene, 

1  Algonquin  for  bear. 


A  cow,  the  summer's  calf,  and  a  spike-horn  bull ;  behind  them  a  lord 
of  the  swamps  .  .  .  swinging  his  antlered  crest." 


TRAGEDY  87 

though  he  knew  he  should  ache  still  more 
were  his  fond  parent  to  find  him  straying 
upon  any  portage  in  that  wild. 

Summer  waned.  Over  there  in  the  north 
the  nights  grew  crisp,  and  a  growing,  glitter- 
ing moon  stared  down  upon  the  solitude. 
At  midday  a  murmuring  host  of  flies  still 
came  forth,  but  in  the  chill  night  air  they 
died.  Then  the  moose  took  comfort.  Here, 
now,  along  the  last  pond  in  the  chain  came  a 
herd  of  four — a  cow,  the  summer's  calf,  and 
a  spike-horn  bull ;  behind  them,  a  lord  of  the 
swamps,  a  great  bull,  swinging  his  antlered 
crest  lightly  as  if  these  heavy  fronds  were 
wisps  of  straw.  His  horns,  though  fully 
grown,  were  still  in  the  velvet  —  broad,  and 
spread  widely  with  massive  palms.  Follow- 
ing at  the  heels  of  the  cow,  he  swept  his  way 
through  the  brush,  strong  and  valiant,  a 
black  giant,  slouching  and  ponderous  in  his 
stride. 

The  sun  dipped  toward  the  hills,  and 
already  the  night  fog  was  lifting  in  the  shad- 
ows of  the  trees.  Stalking  to  the  shore,  the 


88  IN  THE  FOREST. 

herd  plunged  into  the  shallows,  and  rolled, 
wallowing  deeply  in  the  mud.  Grunting 
with  satisfaction  they  lay  there,  and  the  baf- 
fled flies,  droning  in  disappointment,  with- 
drew and  left  them  in  peace. 

But  short  was  their  peace,  indeed.  The 
cow,  rising  to  turn  around,  halted,  and  stood 
fixed  there  rigid  in  alarm.  Across  the  pond 
the  crack  of  a  breaking  twig  sounded  faintly 
in  the  listless  air.  With  twitching  ears  she 
stared  into  the  bush ;  again  a  twig  crackled 
under  the  tread  of  a  heavy  foot,  and  at  that 
instant  a  passing  breeze  shook  the  spires  of 
the  black  spruce  overhead.  Woof  /  With  a 
snort  of  fright  the  cow  drove  the  calf  to  its 
feet,  and  rushed  to  the  shore,  at  her  heels  the 
spike-horn  crazy  with  fear.  But  the  big  bull, 
facing  the  alarm,  still  stood  out  in  the  pond, 
his  head  fixed  on  high,  temerarious,  yet  pre- 
pared discreetly  for  an  instant  flight. 

The  bushes  parted,  and  a  man  stepped 
forth,  and  following  was  a  boy  —  Chabot  and 
the  heir-apparent  Peter.  Once  more  Chabot 
had  come  up  into  the  Beauchene  to  find 


The  cow  .  .  .  stood  fixed  there,  rigid  in  alarm. 


TRAGEDY.  89 

where  the  moose  were  using,  and  as  a  signal 
favour,  brought  Peter  with  him  too.  Here 
they  stood,  now,  and  the  bull  stared,  red-eyed 
and  fixed  with  wild  surprise.  His  gray-black 
mane  pushed  forward,  jets  of  steam  spumed 
from  his  wrinkling  nostrils,  and  —  woof  !  — 
he  snorted  loudly.  Then  a  passing  gust 
swept  him  the  terrorizing  taint.  Woof  !  He 
lunged  about,  slow  and  awkward,  snorted, 
and  with  a  wild  leap  ploughed  to  the  bank, 
breasted  a  windfall,  and  away  went  slashing 
through  the  forest. 

"  See  um  dat  moose,  now  ?  "  asked  Chabot. 
"Dat  big  moose  —  mos'  big  moose  I  ever 


saw." 


Peter  stood  transfixed,  his  mouth  rounded, 
and  his  eyes  great  with  eagerness.  Then  he 
gasped. 

"  Sartin  dat  big  moose,"  said  he.  "  Bime- 
by  I  shoot  um  dat  moose  —  hey?  " 

"  Hunh  !  "  exclaimed  Chabot.  "  Bimeby  I 
take  um  club  !  " 

There  was  no  answer  to  this  logic.  But 
within,  Peter's  soul  cried  out  in  protest.  For- 


9o  IN  THE  FOREST. 

ever  —  asked  Peter  of  himself  —  forever  was 
he  to  be  a  mere  hewer  of  camp-wood ;  forever 
a  common  drudge  ?  No,  cried  out  the  inner 
voice ;  and,  following  at  his  fond  parent's 
heels,  he  took  up  the  trail  to  camp. 

Now  came  the  frosts,  touching  the  maple 
with  a  brush  of  fiery  red.  Overhead,  the 
moon  grew  round  and  big,  and  flights  of 
southbound  fowl  traded  from  pond  to  pond. 
Fall  had  come,  and  along  the  ranges  the 
rut  was  under  way.  Peace  no  longer  pre- 
vailed; in  the  herd  of  four  the  spike-horn 
bull  was  appreciating  the  first  sad  fruits  of 
existence.  He  noted  with  growing  concern 
the  bellicose  attitude  of  the  master-lord ;  for, 
surly  and  jealous,  the  big  bull  mooned  about 
the  ridges  grunting  fiercely,  or  in  the  swamps 
beat  his  heavy  antlers  against  the  alder's 
trunks.  Around  his  face  hung  the  tattered 
velvet  from  his  horns,  now  white  and  sharp 
about  the  points ;  and  sometimes  he  dashed 
frantically  down  the  hollows,  and  as  fran- 
tically returned.  Again,  he  prodded  the 
spike-horn  brusquely  in  the  ribs,  and  the 


TRAGEDY.  91 

spike-horn  wondered  why.  Uneasily  the  cow 
looked  on.  She  watched  these  demonstra- 
tions, and  bided  her  time.  Then,  one  night, 
when  the  bull  had  gone  charging  down  the 
slopes,  she  fled  the  opposite  way,  taking  the 
calf,  but  leaving  the  bepuzzled  spike-horn 
to  settle  his  own  affairs.  Outraged  at  this 
desertion,  he  stood  upon  the  hilltop,  and 
felt  resentment  surging  in  his  heart.  Hark ! 
There  was  the  big  bull  coming  back.  The 
spike-horn's  mane  ruffled  forward,  and  a  red 
gleam  shot  from  his  eye.  Rage  possessed 
him.  He  spread  his  legs  apart,  squaring 
himself  for  the  combat.  Oonh  !  he  grunted, 
and  at  the  sound  there  was  an  answering 
roar  from  the  oncoming  lord.  In  masterful 
imitation,  the  spike-horn  beat  his  clubs  — 
still  cloaked  in  velvet  —  upon  the  bushes. 
Oonh!  he  roared. 

Crack — crash !  The  big  bull  tore  through 
the  brush,  and  with  glowering  eyes  stood 
confronting  his  younger  rival.  But  rage 
had  seized  the  spike-horn,  and  he  cast  dis- 
cretion to  the  winds.  Roaring,  he  fell  sud- 


92  IN  THE  FOREST. 

denly  upon  the  big  bull's  flank,  and  jabbed 
him  viciously  with  short  and  stubby  horns. 
A  bellow  of  rage  and  pain  burst  from  the 
giant;  he  swung  about,  and,  driving  down 
upon  the  spike-horn,  threw  him  heavily  upon 
his  haunches.  Then  he  gored  brutally  while 
the  vanquished  young  one  struggled  to  his 
feet,  and,  turning  tail,  the  spike-horn  fled 
squealing  down  the  ridges  before  his  infuri- 
ated vanquisher. 

Three  days  after  this,  still  sore  and  aweary, 
the  spike-horn  lay  in  a  swamp,  where  the 
black  mud  brought  balm  to  his  wounded 
ribs.  Life  was  no  longer  what  it  had  seemed 
in  the  first  heyday  of  his  youth,  and  solitude 
oppressed  him.  His  heart  grew  fond  with 
longing;  he  thought  of  a  young,  sleek,  vel- 
vety cow  he  had  seen  days  before  wallow- 
ing in  the  upper  ponds.  Where  was  the 
charmer  now?  He  heaved  slowly  to  his 
feet,  and  slunk  down  to  the  open  water. 
Oonh!  he  grunted  softly. 

What  was  that?  From  a  neighbouring 
ridge  came  a  dulcet  tremolo,  a  soft  answer 


"Turning  tail,   the  spike-horn  fled  squealing  down  the  ridges  before 
his  infuriated  vanquisher." 


TRAGEDY.  93 

to  his  call.  E-ee-unh  !  It  arose  whispering 
on  the  night  air,  a  seductive  chord;  and  with 
his  eye  aflame,  the  spike-horn  charged  across 
the  shallows,  and  burst  his  way  into  the 
arbour  beyond.  There  stood  that  self-same 
sleek  and  velvety  cow,  blandly  cropping  at 
the  browse,  and  quite  unaffected  by  his  mas- 
terful presence.  The  spike-horn  was  non- 
plussed; he  halted  in  his  stride,  and  stared 
at  the  charmer.  Then  he  grunted  again, 
and  at  this  his  adored  looked  superciliously 
about.  Somehow,  he  had  created  an  effect, 
so,  to  push  his  suit,  he  fell  to  beating  the 
bushes  with  his  spikes,  feeling  strength  and 
valour  stirring  in  his  breast,  in  his  heart  a 
deep  love.  Surely  the  brave  deserve  the 
fair;  the  spike-horn  lifted  his  head  and 
roared  defiantly  to  the  world.  At  first 
the  world  gave  no  answer,  so  the  spike- 
horn  roared  again.  Oonhl  Oonh!  Then 
more  loudly  —  roonh!  The  echoes  were 
still  beating  from  the  hills  across  the  even- 
ing quiet,  when  an  answering  challenge 
came  thundering  down  the  flat  —  Woonh  I 


94  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Woonhl — hoarse  and  vengeful,  the  voice  of 
mastery. 

Silence  followed.  The  spike-horn  stood 
with  his  mane  ruffled  in  rage,  his  head 
lowered  for  the  affray;  again  the  heavy 
answer  roared  across  the  interval.  He 
heard  the  brush  crash  beneath  the  other's 
tread;  still  again  he  roared,  and  out  from 
the  timber  yonder  strode  the  big  bull. 
Wrath  possessed  the  colossus.  He  beat 
his  horns  upon  the  trees  till  they  clashed 
like  steel  striking  upon  steel,  and  at  a  clip- 
ping stride  rushed  to  the  combat.  The 
spike-horn  irresolutely  paused.  He  beheld 
his  ancient  foe,  and  his  spirit  weakened. 
There  stood  the  cow,  looking  on,  and  then, 
mischievously,  as  if  to  provoke  the  affray, 
she  lowed  softly  —  oow  !  eunh  ! 

Enough ;  the  spike-horn  blared  back  with 
valiant  purpose.  He  roared  loudly,  and 
the  big  bull,  rushing  the  cover,  fell  upon 
him  like  an  avalanche.  Then  fled  the  cow. 

The  conflict  was  short.  Once  more  the 
lord  of  the  swamps  smashed  down  the  weak- 


The  spike-horn  lifted  his  head  and  roared 
defiantly  to  the  world." 


TRAGEDY.  95 

ling's  guard,  jabbed  him  viciously,  and  with 
guttural  bellows  drove  the  usurper  over  the 
hilltop,  and  far  from  the  scene  of  his  woo- 
ing. So,  sore  and  violent  with  impotent 
rage,  the  spike-horn  again  sought  seclusion 
in  a  swamp,  where  for  a  week  he  lay  in 
silence. 

"Fine  night,"  said  Chabot;  "sartin  I  go 
call  um  dat  moose."  Peter  grinned.  He 
sat  on  his  hams  intently  silent,  while  the 
head  of  the  house  of  Chabot  stood  before 
the  fire  rolling  a  square  of  birch-bark,  now 
heating  it  in  the  flame,  now  bending  it 
upon  his  knee.  Presently,  with  a  dexterous 
hand,  he  twisted  it  into  shape  —  a  moose 
horn  with  a  superior  tone,  fit  to  draw  from 
his  haunts  the  wariest  moose.  Binding  it 
with  a  thong  of  spruce  root,  Chabot  trimmed 
the  edges  to  his  satisfaction,  and  then,  with 
a  solemn  wink  at  Peter,  lifted  it  to  his  lips. 
Oowl  eunhl  he  grunted  seductively  — 
eunh  I 

"  Sartin  call  um  dat  moose,"  said  he. 


96  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Peter  reached  out  and  took  the  horn. 
Often  in  the  family  manse  on  Bumb  Creek 
he  had  listened  to  his  parent  practising; 
often,  when  there  was  nothing  else  to 
amuse,  Peter  had  tried  a  simulation  of  the 
cow's  wooing  call.  With  a  sidewise  look 
at  his  father,  he  breathed  into  the  horn 
—  grunted  once  appealingly  —  and  then 
throated  the  long  call,  the  sonorous  whine 
of  the  lovesick  charmer  of  the  wild.  Chabot 
nodded. 

"Not  so  bad.  Sartin  bimeby  you  call 
um  moose.  Dunno  —  mebbe." 

Silence  lay  upon  the  forest.  Treading 
softly,  Chabot  and  the  eager  Peter  linked 
through  the  bush  toward  the  distant  pond. 
Chabot  led,  bearing  his  rifle  and  the  moose 
horn;  Peter  bearing  only  a  frayed  and  dis- 
solute H.  B.  blanket,  many  seasons  the 
worse  for  wear.  "  Why  you  bring  um  dat 
blanket  ? "  Chabot  demanded,  keen  with 
scorn.  "  Moose  hunter  —  dam  —  take  no 
blanket."  Part  of  his  philosophy  was  that 
to  insure  success  one  must  suffer  every  dis- 


TRAGEDY.  97 

comfort  of  wet  and  cold.  "  Bimeby  moose 
come — no  say  nothing — dam  blanket;  can't 
shoot."  But  Peter  had  another  reason  for 
bearing  this  extra  burden.  In  a  hollow  log 
beside  the  canoe  he  had  stored  his  precious 
gun,  and  determination  nerved  him.  He 
was  bound  to  fling  at  least  one  bullet  into 
the  ribs  of  that  lordly  bull,  and  no  threat 
of  club  could  stay  his  purpose.  But  he 
was  also  aware  that  Chabot  would  never 
suffer  him  in  the  canoe  along  with  this 
deadly  arm.  So  the  blanket  was  to  serve 
a  double  purpose  —  to  sit  upon  and  to  hide 
his  destroying  weapon.  "  Bimeby,"  he 
sniffed  evasively,  "bimeby  catch  um  cold." 
And  Chabot  only  grinned  in  derision. 

They  launched  the  canoe,  and  Chabot 
went  off  into  the  bush  a  piece,  searching 
for  the  paddle.  Peter,  with  a  dexterous 
gesture,  slipped  his  gun  aboard,  and  hid 
it  within  the  blanket. 

"Don't  say  northin',"  warned  Chabot, 
"don't  hit  um  canoe  wit'  paddle.  Bimeby 


see  moose." 


98  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Peter  nodded,  and  they  pushed  from  the 
shore. 

In  the  quiet  air  arose  a  soft  appealing 
murmur,  a  low,  seductive  cadence.  It  stole 
through  the  silent,  austere  forest,  filling 
the  world  with  a  querulous  echo.  A  gang 
of  ducks,  disturbed  from  the  neighbouring 
sedge,  arose  with  a  heavy  splash,  and 
whisked  away  above  the  trees,  clamouring 
at  the  disturber.  Back  from  the  hills  beat 
the  sound,  and  after  it  —  silence.  A  half- 
hour  passed;  the  sun  had  dropped  below 
the  distant  hills,  and  a  light  vapour  eddied 
about  the  chill  surface  of  the  pond.  Again 
the  moose-horn  tried  the  distant  covers  — 
louder  and  more  appealing.  No  answer. 

"Sartin  dat  moose  long  way  off,"  ex- 
claimed Chabot. 

"Dunno,"  answered  Peter,  in  dejection; 
"  mebbe  he  got  um  cow  a'ready." 

Long  shadows  stole  across  the  pond,  and 
the  moon  overhead,  fleecy,  first,  in  the  light 
of  the  dying  sun,  gave  forth  a  radiant  gleam. 
Darkness  came.  Once  more  Chabot  tried 


TRAGEDY.  99 

the  horn.  E-unh!  E-ee-oo-ooo-oonh  I  A 
long,  wailing  bellow,  agonizing  and  full 
of  lovelorn  sorrow  —  loneliness,  a  cry  of 
solitude. 

A  quick  movement  of  the  two  set  the 
canoe  rocking  upon  the  placid  pond.  What 
was  that!  They  listened,  their  nostrils 
spread,  their  breath  whistling  in  the  still- 
ness. Oonh  !  Then  —  Runh  ! 

"  Over  there ! "  hissed  Chabot  in  a  whis- 
per. He  pointed  to  a  neighbouring  hill,  his 
eyes  glittering  with  satisfaction. 

"  No  —  not  over  there !  "  cried  Peter. 
"  Hunh  —  listen  ;  over  here ! " 

They  hearkened  again.  "  By  gar !  "  ex- 
claimed Chabot,  "hear  um  two  moose; 
bimeby  fight,  mebbe." 

The  spike-horn  bull  stood  in  a  cedar 
swamp,  his  feet  spread  apart  and  his  head 
hanging  low.  All  day  he  had  been  running 
up  and  down  the  ridges,  and  now  that  night 
was  come  he  paused  to  listen.  Perhaps  in 
this  quiet  he  would  hear  the  voice  of  his 
charmer  —  perhaps ;  but  he  had  scant  hope. 


ioo  IN  THE  FOREST. 

A  near-by  owl  screamed,  and  he  started,  ner- 
vous at  every  unwonted  sound.  But  then 
silence  fell  again  upon  the  forest,  and  only 
his  heavy  breathing  disturbed  the  quiet  air. 
Unh  I  what  was  that  ?  He  heard  a  soft  ap- 
pealing murmur  —  a  low,  seductive  cadence 

—  steal  through  the  whispering  night.    With 
beating  heart  he  listened,  and  the  echo  died 
away.     Silence  again.     Cautiously  he  moved 
in  the  direction  of  the  sound.     Once  again, 
as   he   plied   through    the   darkening  forest 
aisles,  he  heard  the  call  go  up ;  then  again 

—  loudly   and   distinct.     Unh  I   he  grunted 

—  unh  —  oonh! 

Across  the  hills   came  another  sound,  a 
fiercer,  deeper  answer  to  the  horn — woonh 

—  runhl      But    the    spike-horn,   ploughing 
through  the  bush,  for  a  while  heard  nothing 
but   the   dulcet  obbligato,   the   soft   appeal, 
the  birch  horn   simulating  the  cry  of   love. 
The  big  bull,  swaggering  and  self-conscious, 
was    bound   for   the   wooing   too.      At   his 
heels    trotted    the    sleek    and    velvet    cow, 
vainly  trying  to  draw  him  from   her  rival. 


TRAGEDY.  101 

But  the  big  bull,  arrogant  in  his  might, 
was  disposed  to  pay  double  court;  at  any 
rate,  to  look  upon  the  charms  of  this  other 
cow.  Aarnhl  whined  his  doleful  mate  — 
aarnh !  But  he  still  made  on.  Again  she 
whined,  crying  like  a  whimpering  hound, 
when  the  bull  halted  and  looked  back. 
Should  he  go  or  not  ?  Truly  he  that  hesi- 
tates is  lost.  Once  more  the  tones  of  the 
horn  floated  over  the  interval,  and  with  a 
loud  answer  he  pressed  forward,  ignoring 
the  appeals  to  return. 

On  the  hilltop  overlooking  the  pond 
paused  the  spike-horn  bull.  Oonh!  Oonh! 
he  grunted.  The  effect  was  magical.  Be- 
low from  the  pond  came  a  soft,  insinuating 
answer ;  from  the  opposite  hill,  a  loud,  roar- 
ing challenge.  Eagerness  fled  from  the 
heart  of  the  spike-horn ;  it  was  his  enemy's 
voice.  He  stood  there,  wild  with  rage,  yet 
prudently  prepared  for  flight.  Once  more 
the  horn  sounded,  and  the  big  bull  gave  the 
answer,  ending  with  another  challenge  roar. 
No,  the  spike-horn  had  learned  a  lesson  of 


102  IN  THE  FOREST. 

discretion,  and  at  heavy  cost.  He  would 
not  answer  the  challenge,  but  still  he  would 
steal  down  to  the  pond  for  at  least  one  look 
at  his  charmer.  So  softly,  gliding  like  a 
shadow,  he  stepped  down  the  ridge,  silently, 
with  no  more  noise  than  a  hunting  mink 
would  make.  In  this  way  he  reached  the 
soft  ground  below,  and  was  just  turning 
toward  the  pond,  when  a  light  air  wheeled 
across  the  flat.  Whoo!  What  was  that? 
His  nose  stretched  forth,  wrinkling,  and 
tried  the  passing  breeze.  Whoo  I  One 
gulp  of  the  tainted  air  turned  him  right 
about,  and  he  fled,  stealing  away  terrified. 

On  came  the  big  bull  unwarned.  He 
reached  the  low  ground,  and  stood  there, 
beating  his  horns  upon  the  trees.  Again 
he  grunted,  again  and  again.  Slosh  —  slosh 
—  slosh!  He  heard  the  fair  one  treading 
along  the  shadows,  so  he  thought;  but  it 
was  Chabot  threshing  the  water  with  a 
paddle.  Ow-eunh!  called  Chabot. 

A  sudden  crash  broke  from  the  bush. 
"  Coming,"  hissed  Chabot.  Peter,  with  a 


TRAGEDY.  103 

convulsive  movement,  dragged  forth  the 
gun  beneath  him.  He  stretched  it  out  over 
the  bow  of  the  canoe,  and  with  thumping 
heart  waited,  his  finger  on  the  trigger. 
Again  —  another  crash.  Out  into  the  shal- 
lows rushed  a  black  hulk  —  a  moose!  It 
stood  for  an  instant  revealed  in  the  moon- 
light, and  Chabot,  dropping  his  gun,  cursed 
aloud.  It  was  the  cow;  she  had  rushed 
in  to  drive  away  her  rival.  There  she 
stood,  looking  everywhere,  grunting  in  her 
rage. 

"Dam!"  said  Chabot.  "See  um  dat 
dam  —  " 

A  ripping  detonation  cut  him  short ;  from 
the  bow  of  the  canoe  shot  forth  a  streak 
of  flame,  lighting  the  black  shadows  under 
the  leaning  trees.  Night  roared  with  a 
thousand  echoes,  and  the  choking  fumes  of 
powder  hung  heavy  upon  the  air.  There 
for  an  instant  stood  the  cow  in  silence, 
but  only  for  an  instant.  A  hoarse  bellow 
of  fear  burst  from  her;  she  turned  about, 
and  galloped  madly  for  cover.  Crash  — 


io4  IN  THE  FOREST. 

crash  —  crash  —  away  she  went,  and  before 
her  fled  the  bull. 

"What  for  you  shoot  um  dat  cow?" 
cried  the  wrathful  voice  of  Chabot.  "  By 
gar,  you  miss  um,  too.  Sartin  —  by  gar  — 
sartin  I  take  um  —  dam  —  " 

High  into  the  night  arose  the  swift  stac- 
cato of  a  thumping  club  and  the  loud  yells 
of  Peter,  heir  of  all  the  Chabots. 

Once  frightened,  a  moose  goes  far.  For 
three  days  Chabot  tracked  the  forest,  cir- 
cling widely,  before  he  found  again  where 
the  big  moose  was  ranging  with  his  cow. 
Meanwhile,  Peter  was  marooned  in  camp, 
his  back  and  ribs  still  a  sore  reminder  of 
that  dramatic  night.  Beyond  the  last  of 
the  Beauchene  ponds  Chabot  at  last  ran 
upon  the  quarry 's  track  —  a  deep-beaten 
runway  where  the  moose  came  down  to  the 
water  in  the  night.  An  open  barren  lay 
around  the  pond  —  a  dark  pug-hole  fathoms 
deep  with  mud.  Chabot  looked  about.  He 
picked  up  the  trail,  and  followed,  marking 
the  way  toward  the  timber.  Deviously  it 


TRAGEDY.  105 

led  along  the  barren's  edge,  and  at  last 
turned  toward  a  neighbouring  ridge.  Under 
foot  the  dried  leaves  lay  deep,  noisy,  and 
alarming,  and  for  fear  of  starting  the  game 
again,  Chabot  dared  go  no  farther.  But 
he  made  sure  before  returning  that  it  was 
the  big  bull,  or,  at  any  rate,  one  quite  as 
large ;  for  where  the  moose  passed  between 
two  trees  at  least  an  arm's  breadth  across, 
his  horns  had  chipped  the  bark  on  both. 

"  Sartin  dat  big  moose,"  Chabot  reflected ; 
"sartin  dat  same  bull." 

Peter  still  sat  by  the  fire,  cleaning  his 
beloved  gun,  when  a  cracking  twig  gave 
warning.  Thrusting  the  rifle  into  the 
bushes,  he  settled  into  a  dejected  attitude, 
and  gave  no  answer  to  Chabot's  surly 
"Hunh!"  But  presently  Peter  noted  that 
his  father's  sullen  reserve  was  melting  like 
spring  snow  on  a  southern  hillside. 

"  See  um  dat  moose  ? "  asked  Peter,  ten- 
tatively. 

Chabot  turned  round.  "No  see  um 
moose  —  find  track." 


106  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Delight  spread  upon  Peter's  solemn  face. 
"  You  find  um,  hey  ?  Moom  —  good  !  Bime- 
by I  go— " 

Chabot's  hand  reached  for  the  kettle- 
prop —  a  long  and  supple  staff  of  ash  — 
and  his  fingers  closed  upon  it.  "  Hoh ! " 
he  cried,  and  Peter  said  no  more. 

"  Bimeby  /  go  call  um  dat  moose,"  Cha- 
bot  announced ;  "  bimeby  /  go  kill  um." 

He  settled  himself  before  the  fire,  and 
with  his  skinning-knife  fell  to  trimming 
the  edges  of  his  moose  horn.  Peter  de- 
bated. What  course  should  he  pursue? 
Over  yonder  was  the  big  bull,  and  he  had 
never  killed  a  moose.  Forever  should  he 
be  a  hewer  of  camp-wood ;  forever  a  com- 
mon drudge? 

"  Where  you  see  um  dat  moose  ? "  he 
asked,  his  keen  eyes  belying  the  innocence 
of  his  voice,  and  Chabot  fell  a  victim  to 
the  duplicity  of  his  son  and  heir. 

"  No  see  um  moose  —  find  um  by  big 
barren  —  hunh  !  " 

Peter  arose  and  sauntered  into  the  bush. 


TRAGEDY.  107 

Once  out  of  sight,  he  took  to  his  heels,  and 
ten  minutes  later  was  stripping  a  square 
of  bark  from  a  birch,  and  twisting  it  horn- 
shape,  whistling  gayly  as  he  worked.  This 
finished,  he  slouched  back  to  the  fire. 

"  Peter,  you  sit  by  fire ;  I  go  call  um 
moose."  Chabot  arose,  gun  in  hand.  "  Fine 
night,  sure  'nuff ;  hear  um  moose  —  bimeby 
see  um." 

He  strode  off  up  the  trail,  and  Peter 
leaped  to  his  feet.  He  waited  till  the  re- 
treating footsteps  died  away;  then  kicked 
out  the  fire  and  snatched  up  his  gun  and 
horn.  With  one  last  look  around,  he  sped 
away  in  pursuit,  and  silence  once  more  re- 
sumed her  own. 

Up  and  down  the  ranges  ran  the  spike- 
horn,  still  looking  for  his  cow.  From  the 
lower  Beauchene,  eastward  into  the  edge 
of  the  big  barren,  his  chase  led  on.  He 
raced  along  the  ridges,  grunting  now  and 
then,  or  in  the  swamps  halted,  pawing  pot- 
holes in  the  black  mire  and  beating  the 
alders  with  his  horns.  A  frenzy  possessed 


io8  IN  THE  FOREST. 

him,  for  the  rutting  rage  had  filled  him  anew 
with  valour.  What  was  the  big  bull  to  him, 
or  any  foe  before  him  ?  Runh  !  he  grunted 
hoarsely,  and,  almost  as  if  in  echo,  the  dron- 
ing call  of  a  wooing  cow  sounded  across  the 
barren.  A  moment's  silence,  then  he  roared 
the  answer. 

On  a  neighbouring  ridge  lay  the  big  bull 
and  his  cow.  He,  too,  heard  the  call  and 
pricked  his  ears.  Unh!  he  grunted  softly, 
and  the  cow,  lying  in  a  neighbouring  thicket, 
lifted  to  her  feet.  There  she  stood,  listen- 
ing, her  ears  wagging  like  a  semaphore,  and 
a  sullen  light  in  her  eye.  In  truth,  the 
course  of  true  love  to  her  had  proved  a 
rough,  uneven  path,  an  experience  hardly 
to  be  desired.  Before  her  lord  she  had 
been  driven  from  range  to  range  —  knocked 
about  in  the  bull's  moments  of  frenzied  dis- 
pleasure —  goaded,  gored,  and  harried  along 
the  runways.  Now  she  awaited  only  the 
opportunity  to  flee  his  presence ;  and  once 
more  the  call  of  another  charmer  sounded 
in  his  ears. 


TRAGEDY.  109 

Runhl  Runh!  The  big  bull  swept  his 
horns  from  side  to  side,  beating  the  bushes 
in  his  way.  With  a  long  stride  he  marched 
down  toward  the  barren,  the  cow  close  at  his 
heels.  She  was  silent  now  —  on  the  watch, 
waiting.  She  followed  till  they  reached  the 
edge  of  the  cover,  and  there  the  bull  raised 
his  voice  again  —  wunh  !  runh  !  Across  the 
barren  came  an  answer  —  unh  I  oonh  !  —  the 
challenge  of  the  spike-horn.  Then  silence. 

A  light  air  sighed  among  the  trees.  It 
swept  over  the  bull  and  his  cow,  eddied  a 
moment  among  the  tops,  and  then  blew 
straight  across  the  opening.  Whoo!  The 
spike-horn  sniffed  the  breeze,  tainted  with  the 
blended  scent  of  man  and  moose.  Whoo  I 
he  sniffed,  and  was  silent.  Softly  he  crept 
along  the  forest  edge,  cautiously  trying  the 
air.  But  once  more  the  breeze  had  died 
away,  and  the  scent  was  gone.  Now  came 
again  the  horn's  low  voice,  stirring  the  echoes 
on  the  hill.  Hoarsely  the  big  bull  answered, 
and,  forgetting  all,  the  spike-horn  roared  the 
challenge  back. 


no  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Far  down  the  barren  arose  the  cry  of  an- 
other cow.  Dismally  soft,  it  wavered  over 
the  sleeping  forest  and  murmured  to  the 
skies,  rising  and  falling  in  waves  of  sorrow- 
ful sound.  Chabot,  hidden  in  the  brush  out 
there  upon  the  barren,  heard,  and  raised 
his  head  to  look. 

"  Hunh !     Dam  cow  call  um  away." 

A  dense  silence  fell  upon  the  forest  world ; 
on  one  side  stood  the  big  bull  listening,  on 
the  other  the  spike-horn  raptly  intent.  Then, 
breaking  from  the  cover,  the  spike-horn  raced 
down  the  open  barren,  grunting  as  he  sped 
along.  Runhl  roared  the  big  bull,  follow- 
ing. In  vain  Chabot  yodled  upon  his  horn. 
Once  he  stopped  the  pair,  but  a  soft  grunt 
from  the  other  charmer  down  below  tolled 
them  along  anew. 

"  Hunh !  "  exclaimed  Chabot,  suddenly  and 
with  attentive  ear.  "  Hunh  !  What  dat  ?  " 
He  listened  anew  to  the  other  call,  heard  it 
come  floating  out  of  the  distance,  throaty 
and  alluring,  and  with  a  savage  curse  struck 
his  hand  upon  his  knee. 


TRAGEDY.  in 

"  Who  call  um  dat  moose  ? "  he  cried 
aloud. 

It  was  Peter  —  the  graceless  Peter  —  gone 
moose-hunting  on  his  own  account.  Chabot 
swore  again. 

The  spike-horn  bull  halted  with  a  crash 
of  breaking  wood.  Whoo!  The  air  was 
rank  with  the  scent  of  man.  Whoo  I  he 
snuffed  aloud,  and  the  big  bull  heard  him 
snorting.  But  before  he  could  turn  to  flee 
—  aarnl  aarn!  e-unhl  —  came  the  whine 
of  a  moose-calf.  Peter,  indeed,  was  trying 
all  his  arts.  Again  the  big  bull  roared,  and 
though  the  spike-horn  had  detected  the  cheat 
of  the  horn,  he  stood  there,  awaiting  the 
climax. 

Oonhl  Oonh!  he  grunted,  and  at  the 
challenge,  out  rushed  the  big  bull,  crashing 
down  the  thickets,  and  like  a  whirlwind 
tearing  into  the  open.  Oonh!  Woonhl  he 
bellowed  —  and  a  crash  like  a  clap  of 
thunder  broke  from  the  bush  before  him. 

Hill  spoke  to  hill  in  the  trail  of  the  rip- 
ping report.  Over  the  barren  floated  a 


ii2  IN  THE  FOREST. 

cloud  of  white  and  fleecy  smoke,  and  the 
air  was  rancid  with  its  odour.  Cling-bang ! 
Again  the  night  shocked  with  the  thunder- 
burst,  and  with  one  wild  plunge  the  big 
bull  swayed,  gasped  with  a  deep-drawn 
breath,  and  fell  to  his  knees.  His  head, 
crowned  with  massive  horns,  shook  from 
side  to  side;  his  breath  whistled  in  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh.  Clip-bang!  His  head  fell  for- 
ward, he  heaved  once  with  a  violent  shudder, 
and  fell,  rolling  upon  his  side. 

Out  of  the  thicket  raced  a  form  —  wild- 
eyed,  with  a  white  and  drawn  face.  With 
demoniac  yells  of  joy  it  raced  up  to  the 
flank  of  the  dying  quarry,  and  screamed 
anew.  It  was  Peter,  and  around  his  head 
he  waved  a  smoking  gun,  ruined  forever 
now,  and  with  its  fore  end  shattered  from  the 
barrel.  "  Whoop !  "  he  yelled,  and  at  that 
juncture  a  stout  hand  reached  out  in  the 
darkness  and  seized  him  by  the  hair.  With 
an  agile  wrench  Peter  tore  himself  free. 

"Sartin  I  kill  urn  dat  bull!"  he  yelled. 
"  Look  —  you  see  um  dead !  " 


TRAGEDY.  113 

Chabot  looked,  and  his  mouth  opened 
wide.  There  lay  the  bull,  a  colossus,  whose 
head  was  crowned  with  antlers  an  arm's 
breadth  across.  "  By  gar ! "  he  exclaimed, 
"  sartin  you  kill  um  big  moose." 

Beyond,  among  the  ridges,  a  pair  of  moose 
swept  along  the  runways.  One  was  a  sleek 
and  velvety  cow,  the  other  a  spike-horn  bull. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    SURVIVORS A    STORY    OF   THE    LAST 

BISON    HERD. 

P  I  ^HEY  were  years  of  a  ruthless  sacrifice 
-*•  when  the  bison  went  their  way.  Over 
the  dust-blown  prairie,  stirred  by  the  feet  of 
fleeing  herds,  the  uproar  of  the  killing  thun- 
dered. Brown  hulks  of  the  dead  and  dying 
dotted  every  plain;  destruction  loomed  in 
the  trails;  the  slaughter  grew.  Spurred  by 
incessant  fear,  bunch  after  bunch  fled  from 
the  main  body,  and  edged  northward  through 
the  gulfs  of  the  wooded  wilderness.  There 
their  nature  changed.  They  crept  to  the 
thickets,  not  less  crafty  than  the  blacktail 
and  the  herding  elk  —  stampeding  at  every 
unwonted  sound.  Some,  by  terror-stricken 
marches,  reached  deeper  into  the  heart  of 
the  wild,  and  of  these  two  bands  survived. 
One  pushed  northward  —  northward  into 

114 


THE  SURVIVORS.  115 

that  limitless  expanse  of  eternal  cold  that 
lies  under  the  rim  of  the  Arctic  Circle. 
They  faced  their  fronts  to  the  icy,  killing 
blasts,  and  in  that  blank  solitude  sought 
respite  from  the  destroyer.  The  other,  no 
less  determined  and  alert,  dipped  down  into 
a  basin  set  among  the  peaks  of  the  Yellow- 
stone. Over  them,  like  a  benediction,  hov- 
ered the  dead  silence  of  a  desert  world,  and 
for  a  while  they  gorged  in  peace  upon  the 
bunch  grass,  and  fell  anew  into  a  stupor  of 
fat  content.  But  again  the  destroyer  fol- 
lowed ;  the  heights  volleyed  with  the  rifle's 
roar,  and  a  myriad  ill-omened  birds  an- 
swered, screaming  to  the  cry  of  the  killer. 
Then  —  at  the  end  —  the  law  stepped  in. 

It  is  written  now  that  the  bison  of  the 
Park  are  the  nation's  wards — to  be  kept 
inviolate,  guarded  like  a  last  heir  in  a  court 
of  chancery.  Eternal  vigilance  is  the  price 
that  is  paid  for  their  peace,  and  to  save  them 
against  the  greed  of  the  waylaying  poacher 
the  patrols  of  the  government  push  to  and 
fro  across  these  forest  ranges.  Of  these  men 


n6  IN  THE  FOREST. 

a  few  come  to  know  all  about  the  buffalo  — 
where  they  feed  and  when,  and  what  things 
are  doing  in  the  herd;  and  some  there  are 
who  can  even  follow  them  by  night  Under 
the  darkest  sky  they  ride  afar,  watching  the 
raiding  pot-hunter  from  across  the  Wyoming 
and  Idaho  lines  —  the  reckless  scoundrels 
that  kill  for  head  and  hide;  and  neither  fear 
nor  any  fatigue  turns  them  from  the  trail. 

Markovitch  was  one  —  Markovitch,  a  pri- 
vate of  the  troop.  He  came  West  with  a 
city  draft,  drawn  obviously  from  the  un- 
washed army  of  the  unemployed,  and  never 
changed  while  he  went  from  post  to  post. 
Famine 'was  written  gauntly  upon  his  face, 
and  he  confessed,  with  unassuming  frank- 
ness, that  it  was  hunger  and  not  the  martial 
spirit,  nor  yet  again  the  insinuating  English 
of  a  recruiting  dodger,  that  had  first  plunged 
him  into  a  military  life.  He  was  a  mixed 
Muscovite  of  some  sort  or  other,  speaking 
with  the  thick  singsong  guttural  that  comes 
from  a  use  of  tongues  like  the  Yiddish ;  and 
he  was  the  first  of  his  kind  that  had  ever 


THE  SURVIVORS.  117 

come  West  in  a  draft.  Further,  he  was 
scant  in  stature,  slow-moving,  and  perhaps 
a  little  stupid.  But  the  first  day  he  was 
turned  loose  on  the  Park  ranges  he  showed 
that  he  knew  the  work. 

"  Eye-igh !  "  he  cried  in  wonder,  "  var  from 
comes  the  auerochs  ?  " 

A  bunch  of  buffalo  had  just  pitched  over 
the  edge  of  a  slope,  and  with  rolling  shoul- 
ders, heavy-gaited  and  slow,  came  slouching 
down  the  open.  "  Eye-igh  —  dar  I  see  him 

—  the  auerochs ! " 

Slim  Logan,  the  trooper  who  rode  at  his 
knee,  eyed  him  with  airy  scorn.  "  Orrocks 

—  hell!     You   mean   them?"     He  pointed 
toward   the  herd   now  spreading  along  the 
interval.      "Guess   there   ain't  any  circuses 
where   you  hail  from,  Dutch.     Them's  buf- 
falo.    Orrocks  —  my  eye ! " 

But  the  officer  who  rode  ahead  overheard 
and  halted.  "Aurochs  —  what  d'you  know 
about  aurochs,  Markovitch  ?  " 

The  emancipated  Muscovite  blushed  and 
squared  himself  to  attention.  "Yeaas —  I 


n8  IN  THE  FOREST. 

know  him.  Chu  vant  to  know  how  ?  Den 
mine  mooter  she  var  a  woman  of  Lithov, 
that  var  Lithuanie  in  Rooshia.  Dar  is  vere 
the  auerochs  bin.  I  have  seen  him  many 
dimes ;  in  the  forest  I  have  watched  him  at 
his  feed.  They  are  the  buffalo  the  same  — 
no  ? " 

The  lieutenant  nodded,  asking  casually: 
"  Your  father  —  was  he  a  keeper  of  the 
herd?" 

A  faint  flush  burned  upon  the  prominences 
of  the  trooper's  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  wan- 
dered uneasily  away.  "  Mine  vatter  —  no. 
He  var  of  Yaroslav."  His  hand  at  this  up- 
lifted with  a  little  gesture,  half  deprecatory 
and  half  in  pride.  "  Mine  vatter  he  var  of 
the  army  —  an  officer.  Mine  mooter  she 
var  a  dowter  only  of  a  borzatnik  —  a  borzat- 
nik,  a  hunter  —  and  he  var  an  officer  of  the 
army." 

At  the  air  of  astonishment  in  the  officer's 
eye  Markovitch's  colour  deepened.  "  And  is 
he  still  in  the  army  ? "  asked  the  lieutenant, 
curiously.  Markovitch  shook  his  head. 


THE  SURVIVORS.  119 

"  I  should  not  know,"  he  answered,  his 
words  slow  and  halting,  and  his  gaze  fixed 
in  a  dull  scrutiny  of  the  distant  herd.  "  I 
have  not  ever  seen  him.  He  var  gone  be- 
fore I  var  horned." 

The  last  of  the  band  had  streamed  into 
view,  and  were  grazing  slowly  toward  an 
opening  in  the  hills.  At  the  edge  of  the 
timber  the  herd  bull  turned  and  roared 
across  the  interval.  His  mane  and  fringes 
were  grimy  from  the  wallow,  and  the  hair 
had  torn  in  patches,  raggedly,  from  his 
flanks  and  back.  Sturdy,  big,  and  masterful, 
he  faced  them,  and  again  he  roared,  a  deep- 
throated  bellow  that  rang  among  the  silences. 

"  Mine  vatter  he  var  from  the  army,"  ex- 
plained Markovitch,  "and  he  vent  avay." 

But  the  officer  understood  the  drear  story 
that  lay  beneath  the  apologetic  words,  and 
silently  rode  on.  So,  too,  understood  Slim 
Logan,  who  rode  at  the  other's  knee.  He 
gleamed  at  him  from  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
his  mouth  fixed  in  a  mocking  smile.  "  Say, 
Dutch  —  he  var  from  the  army,  eye-igh  ?  " 


120  IN  THE  FOREST. 

he  mimicked,  and  Markovitch  slowly  nodded. 
Logan  laughed  under  his  breath  at  this  can- 
dour, and  curled  his  lip  anew  into  a  sneer 
that  bristled  one  end  of  his  stubby  mustache. 
In  primeval  days  man  showed  his  fangs  as 
the  wolf  and  the  dog  do  even  to-day.  Slim 
Logan,  now,  was  showing  his  teeth.  He 
drew  his  horse  away  and  rode  alone.  But 
Markovitch  gave  no  heed.  His  mind,  at 
the  sight  of  these  buffalo,  first  cousins  to 
the  aurochs  of  Lithuania,  was  occupied  with 
other  thoughts  —  the  memory  of  days  long 
in  the  dead  past.  So  Logan,  scoffing,  eyed 
him  unnoticed,  and,  once  back  at  the  post, 
set  his  tongue  to  work.  Here  was  fair 
game,  indeed,  for  that  active  member  of 
the  detachment.  "  A  foreigner  —  a  damned 
scattermouch,"  thought  Logan,  "and  like 
enough  a  *  sheeny*  too."  Almost  anything 
weak  and  unprotected  was  game  for  Slim 
Logan's  sport. 

tf  Oh,  my  eye !  "  he  laughed,  laying  out  his 
gossip ;  "  and  if  he  didn't  lay  claim  his  peggy 
dad  was  a  straps  —  an  officer  gent.  The 


"The  last  of  the  band  .  .  .  were  grazing  slowly  toward  an  opening  in 
the  hills.  At  the  edge  of  the  timber  the  head  bull  turned  and  roared 
across  the  interval." 


THE  SURVIVORS.  121 

catch-colt !  "  He  spat  contemptuously,  and 
uplifted  his  voice.  "  Hey,  you  —  oh,  Dutch ! 
I  say,  Peddler!  Come  here  and  tell  us  about 
yer  distinguished  payrent  —  Brigadier  Gen'r'l 
Markovitch  what  was.  I  hear  tell  he's  the 
real  thing." 

Markovitch  stood  up,  his  bland,  homely 
face  staring  upon  them  in  round  good 
nature.  "  Yeaas  —  he  var  of  the  army  an 
officer.  But  he  var  not  a  brigadier,  no.  He 
var  —  "  Here  he  hesitated,  open-mouthed, 
pained  and  startled  at  the  ripple  of  gibing 
laughter  that  ran  around  the  circle. 

"  He  var  from  the  army  —  eye-igh  ?  "  mim- 
icked Logan  again,  and  had  just  launched 
into  a  fresh  gibe  when  Mulligan,  the  troop 
sergeant,  touched  him  upon  the  shoulder. 

"  Enough  of  that,  Logan  —  let  the  man 
alone." 

Logan's  answer  was  brief,  but,  to  his 
mind,  strictly  to  the  point.  "  Oh,  devil 
take  the  Jew  —  he's  fair  game." 

But  there  seemed  some  other  sport  for 
men  more  fitting  than  this  baiting  of  a  mild 


122  IN  THE  FOREST. 

and  unoffending  creature,  and  the  sergeant 
looked  Logan  squarely  in  the  eye. 

"  I  misdoubt,  Slim  Logan,"  he  slowly 
drawled,  "that  he's  a  Jew  at  all,  and  may- 
hap he's  as  white  or  whiter'n  you.  D'ye 
hear?" 

Slim  Logan  threw  up  his  head,  his  brows 
knit  into  a  black  frown.  "  It's  your  chev- 
rons lets  you  say  such  things,  Sergeant !  "  he 
sneered. 

"  The  chevrons  —  ey  ?  I  stand  ready  to 
take  off  my  coat  any  time  you  say,  Logan, 
outside." 

But  Logan  only  looked  away,  and  there,  for 
the  time,  the  incident  closed.  And  Logan, 
to  be  sure,  gibed  Markovitch  no  more  —  at 
least  while  the  sergeant  was  about. 

Out  in  the  Park  a  countless  horde  of 
wild  things  wandered,  and  the  days  were 
a  dream  of  delight  to  Markovitch.  Some- 
times, though,  he  was  set  to  guard  the 
geyser  basins,  and  this  he  did  not  like. 
The  weird,  ungodly  manifestations  of  the 
under  world  filled  him  with  a  dark  awe  — 


THE  SURVIVORS.  123 

the  spuming  of  the  pits,  the  dull  rumbling 
of  the  tortured  ground,  and  all  the  other 
sounds  and  sights  of  that  inferno.  Given 
his  own  choice,  he  would  have  kept  from 
the  place  forever,  avoiding  the  sinks  as  the 
Shawnee  and  Blackfeet  did  in  the  days  long 
ago.  It  was  not  only  this  superstitious  awe, 
but  the  work  of  the  place,  that  disgusted 
him.  But  he  did  this  duty  solemnly  —  in 
fact,  as  he  did  all  his  other  work  —  chevying 
the  imbecile  tourists  that  tried  to  write  their 
names  on  the  geyser  rocks  or  strove  to  stir 
up  the  pits  with  soft  soap.  Much  better  to 
stretch  far  out  there  under  the  peaks  —  to 
watch  the  deer  trailing  among  the  glades, 
the  bison  in  the  parks,  and  the  long  bands 
of  elk  that  streamed  across  the  passes.  So 
after  a  while  he  was  set  to  riding  the  ranges, 
the  long  patrols  that  reach  from  Mt.  Everts 
to  the  southern  heights,  from  Absarokas 
to  the  western  line.  And  that,  indeed,  was 
the  thing  to  do,  thought  Markovitch,  riding 
on  his  way. 

Through  all  the  parks  and  the  open  tim- 


124  IN  THE  FOREST. 

her  ranged  the  buffalo,  and  Markovitch 
ranged  with  them.  Sometimes  he  followed 
the  bands  when  they  moved,  and  sometimes 
he  lay  among  the  trees,  idling  like  his  heavy 
charges.  He  marked  the  bison  bulls  at 
their  play  and  in  their  battles  royal,  lying 
so  still  upon  the  grass  that  the  wood  mice 
crept  across  his  feet,  and  the  rock  coneys 
came  out  to  whistle  at  his  elbow.  There 
was  one  big  bull  —  a  mammoth,  a  relic  of  a 
bygone  host  —  that  filled  him  with  wonder 
and  admiration.  The  great  creature's  front 
was  draped  with  a  thick  and  matted  shield 
of  hair,  brown  and  curling  upon  the  down- 
hanging  head,  and  long,  ochred,  and  stream- 
ing about  its  shoulders.  Masterful  was  this 
overlord  among  the  herds.  In  the  spring, 
when  the  battling  rage  broke  forth,  it  drove 
to  and  fro  among  the  bands,  sweeping  vic- 
tory before  it.  Markovitch  wondered  at 
its  vigour,  the  vitality  that  kept  it  potent 
through  all  its  many  shocks  of  war;  and 
when  the  monarch  and  the  following  herd 
drifted  too  near  the  passes  where  the 


THE  SURVIVORS.  125 

poachers  cross,  he  spent  many  hot  and  la- 
borious hours  rounding  up  the  bull  and  the 
cows  and  the  calves,  driving  them  into  the 
safer  central  ground.  Whole  weeks  passed 
in  the  joy  of  herding  his  colossal  charges, 
until  summer  sped  away  and  blind  squalls 
of  snow  swept  about  the  mountain  peaks 
and  came  drifting  across  the  lowlands. 
Then,  as  the  drifts  deepened,  he  took  to 
skis,  and  on  the  long  runners  plied  from 
post  to  post  —  from  Soda  Butte  through 
all  the  miles  of  woodland,  open  and  hilly 
ground,  far  away  to  the  last  reaches  of 
Snake  River.  In  this  expanse  of  solitude 
he  gloried,  though  the  same  loneliness,  the 
same  bleak  and  oppressive  lands  of  silence, 
sometimes  drove  other  men  to  madness. 
On  his  lonely  marches  he  moved  silently, 
for  all  like  any  other  creature  of  this  wild, 
seeing  the  buffalo  as  they  pawed  the  snow 
for  the  frozen  bunch-grass  underneath,  trav- 
elling with  the  elk,  and  finding  where  the 
silver-tip  and  the  cinnamon  had  hived  in 
their  dens  for  the  winter. 


126  IN  THE  FOREST. 

"The  damn,  slinkin'  coyote,"  observed 
Slim  Logan,  with  his  usual  spleen.  "  I'll 
bet  a  hard-tack  agin  a  month's  pay  he  ain't 
up  to  any  good.  Say,  I  see  him  to-day, 
'way  out  there,  snoopin'  round  like  any  of 
your  mean,  no  'count,  sneakin'  wood  cats." 

"  Oh,  you  did,  Slim,  did  you  ? "  said  Mul- 
ligan. "  And  what  was  you  up  to,  yourself, 
out  there  ?  " 

Slim,  for  an  instant,  seemed  baffled,  and 
he  looked  away  with  uneasy  eyes. 

"Oh  —  meanin'  me?  Why,  I  was  just 
workin'  patrol,  to  be  sure  —  only  just  skid- 
din'  along  when  I  see  him.  He  was  — " 

"That  was  a  long  way  off  your  beat, 
Slim,"  cut  in  the  sergeant.  "  And  may  I 
make  bold  to  ask  what  you  were  doing  so 
far  off  your  line  ? " 

Logan's  explanation  was  clear,  but  not 
quite  satisfactory.  "  Oh,  I  was  just  a-fol- 
lerin'  to  see  where  a  bunch  of  buffaloes 
went  —  yes,  there  was  six  cows,  a  calf,  and 
the  old  bull  —  the  big  one,  you  mind?  I 
see  him  —  the  Dutchman  —  snoopin'  round, 


THE  SURVIVORS.  127 

too,  so  I  quit.  He  ain't  no  good,  that 
Dutchman,  says  I." 

"  You  say  too  much,  you  do,"  snapped 
the  sergeant,  tartly,  but  Logan  seemed  too 
busy  at  something  to  give  answer. 

What  Markovitch  was  doing  was  for  the 
good  of  the  government  and  its  charges. 
On  his  lonely  way  from  over  beyond  the 
winter  post  at  Hayden  Valley,  he  had  found 
strange  ski  tracks  in  the  newly  fallen  snow. 
Strange  tracks  in  that  country  meant  no 
good  to  the  game,  and  Markovitch  walked 
on,  watching.  The  tracks  led  across  the 
low  ground,  turned,  and  stretched  into  the 
hills.  Two  men  were  running  on  the  snow, 
and  before  long  he  found  where  a  third, 
coming  in  from  the  post,  had  joined  them. 
He  followed  along,  going  cautiously,  but 
after  an  hour's  stalk  a  snow-squall  burst 
from  the  hills,  and  with  a  downfall  of  heavy 
flakes  obliterated  the  trail. 

Again,  the  day  following,  he  was  out, 
sweeping  in  a  wide  circle  about  the  outly- 
ing ground.  Then,  from  far  over  among 


128  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  open  parks,  he  heard  the  crack  of  a  gun, 
a  second  shot  —  then  a  fusillade.  Guns  in 
the  Park  are  tabooed,  and  a  gun-shot  means 
only  that  there  is  lawlessness  afoot.  Re- 
binding  the  ski  thongs  about  his  feet,  Mar- 
kovitch  skimmed  with  all  his  speed  along  the 
slopes,  making  for  the  place.  Down  one 
ridge  and  across  another  he  loped,  and  had 
just  pushed  out  into  the  open  when  a  loud 
shout  hailed  him,  "Hey,  you  —  oh,  Dutch!" 
Slim  Logan  was  driving  across  the  snow, 
waving  wildly  toward  the  hill  crest  at  his 
left.  Markovitch,  halting,  saw  him  draw 
his  army  Colt's  and  fire  four  times,  yelling 
at  every  shot.  "  There  they  go ! "  cried 
Logan,  and  with  that  he  beckoned  Marko- 
vitch to  follow.  But  when  they  reached 
the  summit,  only  a  blank  stretch  of  un- 
trodden snow  lay  before  them.  "  Come 
along ! "  still  cried  Logan,  swinging  further 
to  the  left.  Markovitch  protested ;  that  way 
led  directly  off  from  the  place  where  he 
had  heard  the  shots.  But  Slim  Logan 
pushed  forward,  a  spurt  of  smoky  snow 


THE  SURVIVORS.  129 

rising  from  the  trailing  j&'-pole  as  he 
plunged,  racing  down  the  declivity.  For 
ten  minutes  he  held  on  his  way,  then 
halted  and  wiped  his  brow. 

"  Gee  —  I  guess  we  lost  'em,"  he  grunted. 

"  Yeaas,"  answered  Markovitch,  "  dey  var 
gone." 

Despite  Logan's  protests,  he  turned  back 
upon  the  trail,  and  went  off  in  a  new  line, 
Logan  quitting  him  at  the  turn.  So  for 
an  hour  Markovitch  plodded  on,  and  then 
again  he  found  the  tracks  upon  the  snow. 
There  were  three  —  all  fresh  —  two  coming 
in  together  and  joining  the  third.  He  saw 
from  the  marks  that  they  had  stood  about 
for  a  while;  then  the  third  man  had  left 
them  and  turned  back  over  his  own  trail. 
Markovitch  followed  the  two,  and  a  half- 
mile  beyond  found  where  a  bunch  of  buf- 
falo had  stamped  out  of  the  timber.  The 
sheeted  surface  was  torn  high  in  furrows 
where  in  their  frantic  efforts  they  had 
driven  through  the  drifts,  and  then  he 
found  a  blur  of  blood  and  an  empty  shell, 


i32  IN  THE  FOREST. 

fronted  Markovitch.  "You  will  go  blab 
on  me  —  hey  —  you  with  your  lyin'  tongue? 
Take  that !  "  He  struck  the  other  a  violent 
blow  in  the  face,  and  followed  with  a  kick 
as  Markovitch  tumbled  backward. 

Uproar  followed.  Markovitch,  a  bloody 
cut  across  his  mouth,  struggled  to  his  feet, 
stupefied  with  astonishment  and  pain.  "  Vat 
—  vat  var  you  —  "  he  began,  when,  violently 
as  before,  Slim  Logan  aimed  a  second  blow 
at  his  head.  Markovitch,  warding  him  off, 
swayed  to  and  fro  with  half-spoken  ques- 
tions baffling  on  his  lips.  "I'll  learn  ye!" 
roared  Logan,  and  with  that  threw  himself 
upon  his  victim. 

A  sudden  change  —  a  pallor,  a  quick 
twitching  of  the  mouth  and  eyes  —  over- 
came the  little  trooper.  With  an  abrupt, 
forceful  gesture  he  gripped  Logan  by  the 
throat,  and  with  his  breath  whistling  be- 
tween his  clenched  teeth,  shook  him  as  a 
terrier  worries  a  rat.  He  grunted  once 
with  exertion  —  "  Ugh-rr-r  !  "  —  and  Slim 
Logan's  heels  beat  upon  the  floor  like 


THE  SURVIVORS.  133 

flails.  Vainly  he  fought  for  breath,  to  es- 
cape the  killing  clutch  upon  his  throat,  but 
Markovitch  still  held  on.  The  others  then 
flung  themselves  upon  him,  one  throttling 
the  man  with  an  elbow  crooked  about  his 
neck.  Yet  still  he  clung  to  Logan's  throat, 
until,  with  a  stifled  cry,  he  was  torn  loose, 
and  thrown  backward  upon  the  floor.  Once 
he  strove  to  rise,  and  a  private  threw  him- 
self upon  his  chest.  "  Ugh-rr-r !  "  he  grunted, 
his  limbs  stiffened  rigidly,  and  with  a  sud- 
den shocking  of  the  muscles  he  was  still. 

Logan,  still  gasping,  sat  up  and  felt  his 
throat.  "  Let  me  kill  him !  "  he  whispered, 
crawling  toward  the  prostrate  man.  But 
the  trooper  sitting  on  Markovitch's  chest 
leaped  up  with  a  startled  cry.  "  Good  God 
—  the  man's  dead!"  Silence  followed,  the 
man  staring  about,  white  with  fear  for  the 
consequence.  But  Markovitch  was  still 
alive.  He  breathed  once,  stertorously,  and 
his  eyelids  fluttered  like  the  wings  of  a 
wounded  bird.  "  No ;  he's  alive.  He  ain't 
dead,"  cried  the  trooper.  Then  with  deep 


136  ,     IN  THE  FOREST. 

an  outlying  park  he  hobbled  the  roan, 
stretched  out  on  the  grass,  and  lay  staring 
dreamily  at  the  sky. 

A  half-mile  below  grazed  the  bison  herd. 
The  big  bull,  bigger  and  more  surly  than 
ever,  lurched  up  and  down  the  open,  toss- 
ing his  heavy  front  and  hooking  the  cows 
in  boorish  gallantry.  The  winter  coat 
hung  in  ragged  folds  from  his  flanks  and 
back,  and  the  red  gleam  of  conquest  was 
in  his  eye.  Once  he  challenged  the  hills 
with  a  raucous  bellow,  a  clamorous  call 
that  beat  back  in  trumpet  echoes  from 
the  slopes.  Markovitch  sat  up,  looking 
idly  toward  him.  "Eye-igh!  It  var  the 
spring,"  he  murmured  abstractedly.  A 
younger  bull  tolled  in  toward  the  cows, 
advancing  with  a  halting,  hesitating  stride; 
and  the  colossus,  snorting  the  earth,  faced 
the  intruder,  pawing  the  ground  till  the 
sods  flew  in  volleys  about  his  ragged  sides. 
Again  he  roared ;  his  head  swung  side- 
ways, and  at  a  plunging  gallop  he  charged. 
Away  went  the  younger  bull,  turning  tail, 


THE  SURVIVORS.  137 

and  with  thudding  hoofs  scampering  to  the 
forest's  edge.  Markovitch  grinned,  while 
the  big  bull,  rounding  up  his  cows,  drove 
them  from  the  place  of  this  disturbing  gal- 
lant. 

Once  more  down  the  river  rode  the 
little  trooper,  his  face  stretched  into  a  wide 
grin,  and  a  bunch  of  flowers  resting  on  the 
pommel  of  his  McClellan  tree.  An  hour 
later  Slim  Logan,  riding  by,  saw  the  roan 
hitched  to  a  fence  paling,  and  with  a  mock- 
ing grin  got  off  and  went  in.  "  It's  a  fine 
day,  Miss  McGinn,"  he  observed  pleas- 
antly; "and  what  the  devil  is  that  Dutch- 
man doin'  here  ?  " 

Miss  Dealie  McGinn,  with  that  ready 
wit  which  will  always  be  remembered  in 
the  Park,  arose  smartly  to  the  occasion. 
"  And  if  you  please,  Mr.  Slim  Logan,"  she 
inquired,  "of  what  business  of  yours  is  it 
to  ask,  I  make  bold  to  say  ? "  During  this 
she  halted  in  the  intricate  processes  of 
pie-making,  and  fixed  him  with  a  disapprov- 
ing eye.  "  Your  langwidge  is  not  fit  for  a 


138  IN  THE  FOREST. 

lady's  ears,  Slim  Logan,  and  will  you  be 
pleased  to  step  out  the  way  you  came  in  ? " 
Slim  Logan  leaned  against  the  door- 
post, curling  his  lip  and  grinning  impu- 
dently. "Oh  — it's  that  way,  is  it?"  he 
mocked,  and,  after  another  leer,  walked  out, 
whistling  in  derision.  Markovitch  sat  by, 
blandly  smiling,  for  the  subtle  inflection  of 
Logan's  phrase  conveyed  nothing  at  all  to 
his  mind.  But  Dealie  McGinn  knew  the 
ways  and  disposition  of  Trooper  Logan, 
and  was  of  a  mind  to  keep  clear  of  his 
company.  Her  anger  now  was  apparent, 
and  Markovitch  looked  into  her  face  per- 
plexed. She  was  not  fair  to  look  upon, 
perhaps,  but  the  little  trooper  saw  nothing 
of  this.  She  was  to  him  much  more  than 
all  the  other  natural  wonders  of  the  Park, 
and  she  filled  him  with  an  awe  as  intense, 
almost,  though  of  a  different  sort.  The 
sun  had  touched  her  face  with  a  ruddy 
glow  that  the  blazing  stove  had  done  its 
best  to  heighten ;  her  hair  was  of  that  raw 
yellow  of  bunch  grass  that  has  grown  too 


THE  SURVIVORS.  139 

long  in  the  sun,  and  guileless  good  humour 
shone  often  in  her  eyes.  Markovitch's 
mind  had  turned  back  to  Lithuania  —  to 
a  girl  of  his  people,  one  with  such  a  face, 
but  deeper,  sadder  eyes.  It  had  been  first 
misery,  then  want,  and  after  that  famine 
that  shone  in  the  eyes  of  that  girl  of  the 
people,  and  — 

"  Mr.  McKovick,"  said  Dealie  McGinn, 
after  a  prolonged  and  deepening  silence, 
"  will  you  be  that  good  to  tell  me  what, 
too,  brings  you  here  the  day?  And  I  am 
minded  to  ask  what  brought  you  the  last 
Choosdah  and  the  Choosdah  afore  that,  to 
say  naught  of  Mondah  week  and  a  Thoors- 
dah  or  so  ?  "  Her  tone  of  vexed  inquiry  re- 
called Markovitch  from  his  reflections,  and 
after  a  moment's  pause  he  widened  his  mouth 
into  a  broad,  bland,  and  childlike  grin.  His 
hands,  dangling  between  his  knees,  plucked 
at  each  other,  and  he  looked  upon  Dealie 
McGinn  with  winking,  softened  eyes. 

"  You  bin  mine  shaatz,"  he  gurgled,  with 
ill-concealed  delight. 


140  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Dealie  McGinn,  with  impetuous  scorn, 
beat  him  across  the  shoulder  with  her  roll- 
ing-pin, and  Markovitch,  at  this  off-hand 
tribute,  laughed  aloud  with  joy.  "  You  bin 
mine  shaatz,"  he  gurgled. 

"  Your  shots  —  hey  ?  It's  you  that's  shot 
—  half  shot,  Mr.  McKovick." 

"Yeaas — I  bin  you;  you  bin  mine — mine 
shaatz  —  mine  sweetheart."  And  Dealie 
McGinn,  with  a  loud  laugh,  fell  into  a  chair. 

"  Saints  be ! "  she  screamed  with  merri- 
ment. "All  right,  then.  Sit  by  and  do 
your  coortin'  regular.  His  shots  —  oh, 
glory  be!" 

So  the  wooing  proceeded,  proclaimed  on 
the  side  of  Markovitch  by  long  and  im- 
pressive silences ;  on  the  part  of  Dealie 
McGinn  by  gales  of  merriment  and  the 
uninterrupted  baking  of  biscuits  and  pie. 
He  sat  in  one  seat  invariably,  his  fists  be- 
tween his  knees,  and  his  square,  bland  face 
fixed  upon  this  creature  of  his  adoration. 

To  all  her  observations  he  made  uniform 
reply,  "  Yeaas,  I  bin  dink  so-oh  mineself." 


THE  SURVIVORS.  141 

And  once  he  made  another  observation  of 
his  own.  "  I  bin  dinking,"  said  he. 

"  It's  your  chief  speci-#/-ity,  Mr.  Mc- 
Kovick,"  she  rallied,  but  Markovitch  went 
on.  He  leaned  forward,  and  with  a  sudden 
gesture,  much  as  a  lion  might  pounce  upon 
a  mouse,  possessed  himself  of  her  hand. 
"You  bin  mine  shaatz.  Den  some  day  — 
yeaas  —  some  day  we  bin  leave  the  army. 
I  been  dink  I  should  be  a  farm." 

Dealie  McGinn  emerged  from  her  fit  of 
laughter  with  a  snort. 

"You'd  be  a  farm,  eh?  I'm  thinkin', 
Mr.  McKovick,  you'd  be  not  much  bigger 
nor  a  potato  patch  with  the  size  of  you. 
You  mean  a  farmer,  hey  ? " 

Markovitch  nodded.  That  was  his  am- 
bition. With  thrift  and  sober  living  he 
had  hoarded  all  his  meagre  pay,  till  now 
he  had  a  snug  sum  laid  by  in  his  kit.  Yes, 
he  would  take  up  a  homestead  claim,  and 
rear  cows  and  sheep,  a  horse  or  so,  with 
perhaps  another  brood  that  already  ap- 
peared large  and  vigorous  in  his  mind's 


142  IN  THE  FOREST. 

eye  —  a  fine  picture  that  set  his  heart  beat- 
ing big  within  his  breast.  "  Yeaas  —  I  bin 
dink  so-oh,"  he  murmured,  and  Dealie 
McGinn,  rocking  with  merriment,  cried, 
"  Ah,  git  out  with  you  !  "  Markovitch, 
without  understanding  the  turn  of  this 
idiom,  arose  perplexed,  and  so  took  him- 
self away.  But  when  again  he  came  back, 
Dealie  McGinn  looked  at  him  softly,  and 
for  a  while  stilled  her  fits  of  high  merri- 
ment. 

Out  along  the  edge  of  the  towering  hills, 
the  herd  took  its  way,  journeying  into  pas- 
tures new,  still  stirred  by  that  instinct 
which,  in  times  now  passed,  had  moved  the 
buffalo  multitude  from  one  grazing  land 
to  another.  They  crossed  from  range  to 
range,  drawing  down  toward  the  trail  that 
leads  in  from  the  western  line;  and  the 
herd  bull,  petulant  from  many  cares,  lolled 
at  the  front,  shielding  his  cows  from  the 
younger  bulls  who  followed  with  a  wise 
eye  for  opportunities.  Absolute  and  men- 


THE  SURVIVORS.  143 

acing,  the  big  bull  roared  when  they  drew 
too  near  with  their  gallantries;  and,  know- 
ing the  consequences,  the  others  kept  their 
distance.  Thus  they  took  their  way  down 
the  ranges,  and  on  the  edge  of  a  crest 
halted,  troubled  with  a  sudden  alarm. 

Three  heads  bobbed  against  the  sky  line, 
and  the  sun  glinted  sharply  upon  the  barrel 
of  a  levelled  gun.  Irresolutely  the  bull 
faced  the  height,  the  cows  staring  stupidly 
and  crowding  in  toward  him.  Crack!  a 
rifle  spoke.  The  sharp  detonation  roared 
from  hill  to  hill,  and  at  the  shock  a  tremor 
convulsed  the  herd.  Hunching  up  his 
shoulders,  the  big  bull  plunged  forward, 
halted,  stirred  again,  and  fell  forward  upon 
his  knees.  From  his  black  muzzle  gushed 
a  jet  of  blood,  but  with  a  mighty,  violent 
plunge  again  he  regained  his  feet.  Once 
more  the  rifle  cracked  as  he  strove  to  lead 
the  band  in  flight,  again  and  then  again. 
The  spluttering  fusillade  racked  the  wild 
with  endless  echoes,  and  the  big  bull,  roll- 
ing on  his  side,  sighed  deeply  with  all  the 


144  IN  THE  FOREST. 

last  strenuous  power  of  his  lungs,  then 
breathed  no  more. 

A  galloping  roan,  flecked  with  froth, 
crashed  out  of  the  edge  of  the  timber  and 
came  rating  across  the  open.  Markovitch, 
with  a  carbine  held  on  high,  was  riding 
fast,  and  at  the  sight  of  the  dead  bull 
standing  by  his  huddled  cows,  a  shout  of 
rage  and  despair  broke  from  his  lips.  The 
roan  shied  from  the  dead  hulk  lying  on 
the  grass,  and  Markovitch,  clutching  at 
the  saddle,  regained  his  seat  and  galloped 
on.  He  rode  straight  for  the  hill,  and  at 
his  coming  a  coatless  figure  rose  and 
scutted  toward  the  trees.  But  the  cut  of 
the  trousers  and  the  way  he  carried  his 
shoulders  betrayed  him.  Markovitch  saw 
and  yelled  again,  "  Eye-igh  —  Logan.  Halt ! 
Surrender ! " 

A  puff  of  smoke  streamed  from  the  hill 
crest,  and  the  roan,  in  full  flight,  dropped 
his  nose  to  the  earth,  and  rolled  headlong 
like  a  rabbit  stopped  by  a  gunshot.  Spit- 
ting out  the  dust,  Markovitch  freed  himself 


The  roan  shied  from  the  dead  hulk  lying  on  the  grass,  and 
Markovitch  .  .  .  rode  straight  for  the  hills,  and  at  his  coming 
a  coatless  figure  rose  and  scutted  toward  the  trees." 


THE  SURVIVORS.  145 

from  the  gear  of  the  fallen  horse,  snatched 
up  his  carbine,  and  charged  onward.  In 
his  despair,  vindictive  at  the  death  of  the 
big  bull,  he  forgot  all  caution,  and  what  it 
meant  to  go  against  such  men  single-handed 
—  men  like  Van  Dyke,  Howell,  and  Pendle- 
ton  —  those  reckless,  scut-faced  rascals  whose 
names  are  of  ill  omen  in  the  Park.  He 
dodged  as  they  fired  again ;  the  bullet  missed 
him,  and  one  of  the  two  arose  and  followed 
Logan  toward  the  trees.  The  other,  work- 
ing at  the  breech  of  his  gun,  jammed  by  an 
empty  shell,  was  still  striving  at  it  when 
Markovitch  whirled  upon  him.  "  Surrender ! " 
he  screamed ;  and  in  answer  the  man  clubbed 
his  gun  and  struck  him  with  all  his  force 
full  upon  the  head. 

They  were  gone;  and  Markovitch  lay 
stretched  upon  the  ground,  with  tense  fin- 
gers clutching  at  the  grass.  Beyond  lay  the 
body  of  the  bull,  and  a  raven  from  the  neigh- 
bouring wood  hopped  down  to  look  about. 
An  hour  later  a  patrol  that  had  heard  the 
shots  galloped  into  the  opening,  and  saw 


146  IN  THE  FOREST. 

first  the  bull,  and  then  Markovitch.  No 
sign  of  life  was  there  but  the  inert  forms, 
the  marks  on  the  hilltop,  and  the  hoof- 
prints  of  ponies  tethered  in  the  wood.  But 
they  told  the  story  plainly  as  if  written. 

Logan  had  long  returned  to  the  post. 
He  hung  about  for  a  while,  cleaning  the 
bore  of  his  carbine,  and  whistling  a  loud 
and  rollicking  tune.  An  hour  passed  in  this 
way,  then  up  the  trail  came  the  patrol,  riding 
fast. 

"Markovitch  —  they've  got  him  for  fair. 
They  were  at  the  buffalo  when  he  caught 


'em." 


Logan  shook  himself  together,  and  the 
tune  failed  on  his  lips.  "  He's  sure  dead  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  Ain't  he  ?  "  He  leaned  against 
the  sweating  troop  horse,  looking  intently 
at  the  rider. 

"  No  —  he  ain't  —  not  yet,"  answered  the 
trooper,  "but  he's  hard  hit.  They  got 
him  with  the  gun  butt.  Hurry  up  there !  " 

"  Ain't  dead !  "  gasped  Slim  Logan,  but 
the  man  never  noticed.  Slim  Logan,  with 


THE  SURVIVORS.  147 

white  lips,  swore  softly  under  his  breath, 
and  watched  the  patrol  with  eager,  shifting 
eyes.  "  I'm  off  for  the  surgeon,"  he  vol- 
unteered, and  went  inside.  No  one  stopped 
him  ;  he  was  still  safe.  He  slipped  into  the 
men's  quarters,  glanced  swiftly  about,  and 
fell  to  tumbling  about  the  belongings  in 
Markovitch's  kit.  Presently  he  found  what 
he  sought,  and,  dropping  the  packet  into  his 
coat,  —  the  packet  that  held  the  whole  hoard 
of  Markovitch's  savings,  —  went  spurring 
down  the  trail.  The  day  following  an  aban- 
doned troop-horse,  jaded  and  with  hardly  a 
foot  left  to  stand  upon,  was  found  straying 
many  miles  beyond  the  Park  lines.  Logan 
was  gone,  a  deserter,  an  outlaw  with  a  price 
set  for  his  capture. 

"  I  saw  him  go  by,  ridin'  awful,"  wailed 
Dealie  McGinn.  "  Oh,  if  I  had  but  known  !  " 

Markovitch  come  back  to  life  slowly, 
through  many  weeks  of  fever  and  delirium. 
Only  by  the  ministrations  of  the  surgeon 
and  Dealie  McGinn  was  he  coaxed  back  from 
the  brink  of  death,  and  then  it  was  a  strange 


148  IN  THE  FOREST. 

awakening.  Past  memories,  speech,  and  all 
that  experience  had  taught  were  swept  away. 
His  speech  he  regained  quickly  enough,  and 
some  memories  returned  with  it  too.  But 
Dealie  McGinn  was  as  if  he  had  never  seen 
her  —  no  more  to  him  than  the  remotest 
stranger. 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  lad  ? "  she  de- 
manded, looking  into  his  face  intently.  "  I 
am  Dealie  McGinn." 

"Yeaas — chu  var  Dealie  McGinn,"  he 
answered,  ,but  with  no  real  recognition,  and 
turned  dully  away. 

"  Var  is  mine  money  ? "  he  cried  one 
day.  They  could  not  find  it,  nor  could  he. 
"  Var  is  it  gone  ?  All  gone !  " 

The  affair  of  Slim  Logan  and  the  accom- 
plice poachers  was  quite  obliterated  from 
his  mind.  The  other  men  termed  him  now 
"the  dummy,"  and  as  he  seemed  mending 
too  slowly  to  meet  the  demands  of  the 
service,  he  was  forthwith  discharged,  paid 
off,  and  told  he  would  be  shipped  back  to 
the  point  where  he  had  been  recruited. 


THE  SURVIVORS.  149 

But  the  next  day  he  disappeared  from  the 
Park. 

Like  the  last  refugees  of  the  bison  herds, 
Markovitch  drifted  to  the  north.  He  got 
work,  first,  as  the  cook  of  a  cattle  outfit, 
and  after  the  round-up  went  toward  the 
line  with  a  pack  train.  Then,  after  roam- 
ing from  ranch  to  ranch,  ever  apparently  in 
search  of  something  or  some  one,  he  crossed 
into  Canada,  and  from  Calgary  at  length 
reached  Edmonton  with  a  stray  trader  of 
his  own  tongue,  an  adventurer  who  had  set 
forth  on  a  pirating  cruise  through  the 
Hudson  Bay  Company's  protected  ground. 
There  the  trader,  for  a  variety  of  reasons, 
saw  that  it  was  wise  to  turn  back;  but 
Markovitch  stayed,  and  there,  too,  the  first 
of  that  wild,  fatuous  pilgrimage  to  the  Yu- 
kon —  the  trying  of  the  Edmonton  trail  — 
found  him  stranded,  willing  for  any  work. 

Along  these  chilled  and  wind-swept  ranges 
north  of  the  Little  Great  Slave  Lake  was  a 
relic  of  the  former  multitudes  —  the  herd  of 
wood  bison,  long  ago  come  up  from  the 


150  IN  THE  FOREST. 

south.  Generations  had  taught  them  the 
fear  of  man,  and  like  uneasy  wraiths  they 
kept  on  the  move,  incessant  in  their  change 
from  place  to  place.  They  trafficked  stealth- 
ily among  the  stunted  timber,  hardly  ven- 
turing into  the  reaches  of  open  ground,  and 
they  were  fleet  of  foot,  and  as  shy  and 
crafty  as  a  long-hunted  white-tail  buck. 
No  stress  of  weather,  no  storm  of  sleeted 
rain  or  snow,  dismayed  them,  and,  once 
started,  they  travelled  in  wild  flight  many 
leagues.  Few  indeed  fell  to  the  guns  of 
the  Chipewyan  or  the  Cree,  and  in  that 
bleak  desolation  of  muskeg,  stunted  fir, 
and  rock  land,  they  fought  their  struggle 
against  their  foes — hardily,  a  survival  of  the 
fittest. 

Foremost  in  that  mad  folly  —  the  Edmon- 
ton trail  to  the  Yukon  —  went  Markovitch. 
Inspired  by  the  false  and  criminal  encour- 
agement of  men  that  had  much  to  gain  and 
nothing  to  lose,  he  herded  with  the  other 
unfortunates  and  plunged  onward  into  that 
frozen  wild.  Day  by  day  they  toiled  north- 


THE  SURVIVORS.  151 

ward,  on  foot  and  by  canoe.  High  up  in  the 
north  winter  overtook  them  ;  they  camped, 
and  the  scurvy  broke  forth.  Some  were 
abandoned  on  the  trail,  the  others  tried 
again  to  push  forward,  and  the  horror  of 
that  enterprise  reached  all  the  way  from 
Athabasca  Landing  into  the  last  remote 
reaches  of  Nelson  River.  Markovitch  turned 
back.  Starvation  was  at  hand,  but  he  knew 
that  if  he  could  reach  the  abandoned  caches 
far  behind  he  would  live  to  escape.  A  dis- 
heartened company  went  with  him,  their 
faces  cracked  and  blackened  from  the  kill- 
ing cold,  stricken  with  swelling  scurvy,  and 
hardly  able  to  plod.  But  he  never  com- 
plained, and  with  the  stolidity  that  always 
marks  his  kind  led  the  faltering  caravan 
along  that  heart-breaking  trail.  Storm  fol- 
lowed storm,  and  one  day  they  missed  the 
trail.  Some  were  for  turning  back  again, 
but  Markovitch  held  on,  swinging  away  by 
the  compass.  But  after  this  their  Dog 
Rib  packers  halted,  and,  beginning  a  wild 
pow-wow,  would  go  no  further. 


152  IN  THE  FOREST. 

They  had  come,  then,  into  the  sterile  land 
that  lies  between  the  headwaters  of  the  Hay 
and  Peace  rivers,  and  the  Indians  were  dis- 
mayed. It  was  a  land  of  evil  spirits,  where 
the  wolf-woman  and  the  other  wild  and 
awful  spirits  walked,  and  their  hearts  were 
turned  with  fear.  They  must  strike  toward 
the  south,  said  the  Indians,  in  distress,  sul- 
len and  with  fierce  gestures.  So  they  turned, 
and  a  half  day's  journey  beyond  saw  the 
smoke  of  many  camp-fires  blurring  the  sky 
at  a  mile's  distance.  Markovitch's  face 
beamed  with  exultation. 

"  Now  we  shall  not  die  in  this  so  awful 
place." 

Loud  shouts  hailed  them,  and  the  last 
stragglers,  in  answer  to  the  greeting,  quick- 
ened their  gait  and  came  dashing  up  the 
ridge. 

"Food  —  we  shall  eat!"  cried  Marko- 
vitch. 

Like  theirs,  this  party  was  but  another  of 
the  luckless  ventures  of  that  trail  of  famine 
and  death.  It  had  turned  back,  easily  dis- 


THE  SURVIVORS.  153 

heartened,  long  before  it  quit  the  last  of  the 
muskeg.  Now,  at  full  speed,  it  was  hasten- 
ing over  the  back  track,  bound  for  the  Little 
Lake,  abandoning  most  of  its  outfit  on  the 
way. 

"Food  — we  shall  eat!" 

At  the  sound  of  Markovitch's  voice,  a  man 
standing  by  the  fire  swung  abruptly  upon  his 
heel.  His  face,  cloaked  by  a  caribou-hide 
capote,  was  hidden.  Only  his  eyes  showed, 
and  in  them  there  was  a  gleam  of  astonish- 
ment, a  sudden  quick  look  of  apprehension. 

"Dutch  —  you  —  "  He  checked  himself 
as  Markovitch  looked  around. 

"Who  calls?"  asked  Markovitch,  but 
there  was  no  answer.  In  Markovitch's  eyes, 
too,  was  a  gleam  —  a  light  of  reawakening 
that  came  with  a  swift,  sudden  memory  of 
some  forgotten  event.  But  it  died  quickly 
enough  as  he  hung,  hovering,  over  the  fire. 

They  camped  that  night,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing travelled  together.  For  three  days  they 
kept  on  across  the  widening  muskeg,  through 
the  dark  and  tangled  thickets  of  fir,  journey- 


154  IN  THE  FOREST. 

ing  by  a  dim  trail  from  day  to  day.  Always 
the  man  in  the  capote  travelled  at  the  heel 
of  Markovitch,  watching.  "You're  called 
Dutch,  ain't  you?"  he  asked,  and  Marko- 
vitch nodded  affably,  with  a  little  smirk. 

"  He's  a  little  gone  here,"  said  one  of  the 
party,  touching  a  ringer  to  his  temple,  indi- 
cating Markovitch  with  a  toss  of  his  head. 
"He's  a  little  gone,  you  know  —  sort  of  a 
dummy.  But  you  can't  beat  him  in  the 
woods.  He's  a  wonder.  Can  pick  a  trail 
almost  blindfolded." 

The  man  in  the  capote  nodded.  "  Sort  of 
a  damned  Jew,  ain't  he?" 

"  Jew  ?  I  guess  not ! "  answered  the  other 
hotly.  "  If  it  hadn't  been  for  him,  when 
those  Dog  Ribs  lost  us,  we'd  all  gone  to  pot, 
you  bet." 

Scowling,  the  man  in  the  capote  walked  on, 
his  eye  following  Markovitch. 

A  trail  crossed  the  snow,  fresh  marks  upon 
that  almost  unbroken  sheet.  Markovitch, 
with  a  quick  start,  leaned  down  to  study  the 
deeply  printed  slots.  "  Look  —  so !  "  he 


THE  SURVIVORS.  155 

whispered,  all  excitement,  and  the  Dog  Rib 
guides  and  a  Cree  packer  crowded  around, 
and  with  them  again  the  man  in  the  capote. 
"  Yes,  look  at  'em !  "  the  man  in  the  capote 
cried,  eagerness  in  his  tone.  "  They  told  me 
they  were  in  the  country,  but  I  didn't  know 
they  came  thus  far  south.  Look  —  three  — 
five  —  a  dozen  —  a  whole  herd  of  them  !  " 

They  were  fresh,  these  tracks,  not  an  hour 
old.  The  herd  had  just  gone  by,  and  the 
Indians,  overcome  with  a  desire  to  take  the 
trail  in  pursuit,  were  arguing  hotly  with 
the  head  men. 

"  Fresh  meat ! "  said  the  man  in  the  capote. 
His  eyes  were  glittering,  and  his  hands  shook 
as  he  cast  aside  his  pack  and  unslung  his 
rifle  from  its  case.  Markovitch  swung 
around.  The  Indians,  with  heads  bent  to 
the  trail,  were  away,  the  white  hunter  fol- 
lowing. 

"  The  buffalo !  "  he  muttered.  "  They  will 
kill  the  buffalo." 

He  stood  erect,  and  with  one  swift  glance 
followed. 


156  IN  THE  FOREST. 

The  two  Dog  Ribs  and  the  white  man 
were  scudding  over  the  crusted  snow,  driving 
onward  at  full  speed.  Their  pace  was  heavy, 
famine  had  told  upon  the  Muscovite's 
strength,  and  he  could  not  break  their  lead. 
But  with  all  his  courage  he  followed. 

Under  the  lee  of  a  fir  thicket  stood  the 
herd.  It  had  come  down  from  the  north, 
fleeing  many  leagues  before  a  band  of  prowl- 
ing Chipewyans.  Here,  far  in  the  south,  it 
had  halted  for  food  and  rest.  A  cow,  stand- 
ing on  the  nearest  summit,  kept  watch  while 
the  herd  grazed  up  the  wind.  They  were 
bigger  and  rounder  than  the  bison  of  the 
Park ;  their  hair  was  of  a  darker  hue  and 
finer;  and  longer,  cleaner  limbs  told  of  gen- 
erations of  speed. 

Off  at  the  right  went  the  two  Dog  Ribs, 
trailing  their  antique  smooth-bores,  the  man 
in  the  capote  taking  his  own  way.  He  was 
circling  to  the  leeward,  and  on  the  crest  of 
the  rise  he  stopped,  dropped  to  his  knees, 
and,  motionless,  looked  ahead.  Behind  was 
Markovitch,  racing  on  the  snow.  He  saw 


Under  the  lee  of  a  fir  thicket  stood  the  herd  .  .  .  here,  far  in  the 
south,  it  had  halted  for  food  and  rest." 


THE  SURVIVORS.  157 

the  man  thrust  aside  the  capote  and  bend  his 
eye  to  the  sights.  Near  by  were  the  Indians, 
loping  along.  They  had  not  seen  the  herd. 

A  hoarse  shout  broke  from  the  lips  of 
Markovitch.  He  had  recognized  the  other. 
There  was  Logan  on  the  hill ;  below,  in  the 
hollow,  was  the  herd. 

"  Hold  !     You  shall  not  kill  the  buffalo ! " 

A  shot  followed,  then  a  thunder  of  stam- 
peding hoofs.  Again  Markovitch  roared, 
the  shout  coming  like  an  infuriated  challenge 
to  the  man  upon  the  hill.  The  Indians,  dis- 
mayed, stopped  and  looked  on.  Markovitch, 
with  his  arms  waving  in  a  wild  menace,  was 
rushing  upward  toward  the  man  in  the  capote. 

"  Logan  —  Slim  Logan  —  chu  shall  not 
kill  the  auerochs!  Ahr-rr!" 

The  Indians  were  running  again,  this  time 
toward  them. 

"  Surrender !  "  screamed  Markovitch,  and 
Logan  beheld  him  with  outstretched,  violent 
arms,  charging  the  hill,  a  wild,  maniac  light 
in  his  eyes.  With  a  sudden  terror  Logan 
turned  and  tried  to  run.  But  his  snowshoes 


158  IN  THE  FOREST. 

tripped  upon  each  other ;  he  fell  again  to  his 
knees,  and  with  a  curse  levelled  his  rifle  at 
the  running  man.  Markovitch  dodged,  and 
the  bullet  went  wide.  "  Chu  shall  not  kill 
the  auerochs ! "  he  screamed.  "  It  is  the  law 
of  the  Park !  "  But  again  Logan  fired,  and 
the  bullet  went  whining  over  the  Indians' 
heads.  With  one  impulse  —  with  one  fear 
that  the  man  would  kill  them  first  —  they  let 
drive  at  Logan  together.  He  was  still  kneel- 
ing, one  hand  working  furiously  at  a  shell 
jammed  in  the  breech  of  his  repeater,  and 
at  the  two  shots  he  pitched  forward  convul- 
sively, spun  around,  and  fell. 

"Hoh  —  he  is  dead!"  roared  Markovitch. 
His  eyelids  twitched,  a  pallor  swept  across 
his  face,  and  he,  too,  fell  upon  the  snow, 
lying  there  with  a  sudden  stiffening  of  his 
limbs. 

Hastened  by  the  shots,  the  other  men  of 
the  party  raced  toward  the  hill.  There  was 
the  tragedy  before  them.  Logan  was  dead, 
Markovitch  just  reviving.  He  sat  up,  gasp- 
ing and  weak,  and  stared  at  the  motley  train, 


THE  SURVIVORS.  159 

at  the  Indians  and  the  whites,  all  with  faces 
drawn  and  cracked  by  the  cold. 

"Vat  — vat  var  it?"  he  demanded.  His 
eyes  swept  the  stretch  of  desolation  laid 
before  him,  and  widened  in  grave  surprise. 
"Var  is  the  mountains?  Var  have  they 
gone  ? "  Then  he  saw  the  body  of  Slim 
Logan  lying  upon  the  snow.  "  Cheaas  —  he 
var  of  the  droop.  Vat  vill  the  post  say  ven 
they  hear  he  shall  kill  the  buffalo  of  the 
Park  ?  " 

The  man,  thought  the  others,  was  plainly 
out  of  his  mind.  "What  Park?  What's  it 
all  about  ? " 

Markovitch's  air  of  wonder  was  renewed. 
"This— the  Park  of  the  Yellowstone!"  he 
cried.  "  He  var  Slim  Logan  of  the  droop, 
and  he  have  bin  shot." 

They  thought,  indeed,  that  Markovitch 
had  killed  him,  but  then  they  saw  he  had  no 
gun.  After  this  the  Indians  were  questioned. 
They  sat  there  in  the  snow,  and  with  a  babel 
of  Cree  and  Chipewyan,  with  many  signs  and 
rude  figures,  made  it  known  that  they  had 


160  IN  THE  FOREST. 

killed  the  man.  They  were  in  fear  of  death ; 
he  was  shooting  them  instead  of  the  bison, 
and  this  man  and  the  other  were  both  mad. 

"  No,  I  am  not  mad,"  exclaimed  Marko- 
vitch.  "But  the  Park  — var  is  the  Park? 
And  Slim  Logan  —  vor  vy  is  not  the  uniform 
of  the  droop,  but  this  —  a  blanket  clothes  ?  " 

Down  from  the  upper  forks  of  the  Yellow- 
stone came  Markovitch,  riding  into  the  Park. 
He  swung  aside  into  the  foot  hills,  and  at 
the  edge  of  a  wide  and  open  glade  halted, 
looking  across  the  interval.  It  was  spring, 
and  a  loud  bellow  challenged  from  the  tim- 
ber's edge.  Out  into  the  open  came  a  herd, 
a  shaggy  bull  in  the  lead,  followed  by  his 
companion  cows.  "  Eye-igh  —  it  is  the 
spring!"  he  murmured,  and  rode  on.  He 
clattered  then  along  a  well-remembered  trail, 
and  after  many  miles  drew  up  and  dropped 
the  bridle-rein  across  the  pickets  of  a  fence. 
Then  he  walked  manfully  up  the  path. 

A  woman  was  standing  in  the  doorway, 
and  it  was  Dealie  McGinn.  She  stared  at 


THE  SURVIVORS.  161 

the  man,  threw  up  her  hands,  and  cried  aloud, 
"Oh,  glory  be!"  A  wide  and  bewitching 
grin  spread  upon  his  face. 

"  D'you  know  me,  laddie  ?  "  she  shrilled, 
and  the  grin  grew  wider. 

"  Yeaas !  "  he  gurgled.  "  Yeaas ;  you  bin 
mine  schaatz." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ON    THE  SNOW. 

ONWARD  led  the  track  — a  deep,  un- 
swerving trail  —  still  pushing  along  the 
forest's  snowy  floor  northward  toward  the 
upper  reaches  of  the  Kippewa.  Beauchene 
now  lay  far  in  the  rear,  and  through  an 
interminable  silence  of  unbroken  winter 
woods  the  chase  fared  on,  striking  from  the 
lower  swamps  upward  along  the  open  tim- 
ber. Lemaire  led,  no  longer  stealing,  cau- 
tious, with  catlike  steps  through  the  bush, 
but  plunging  on,  determined  to  wear  down 
the  quarry  by  a  sheer  persistence.  One  day 
was  gone,  another  dying,  and  the  moose  —  a 
big  bull — still  was  travelling,  vigorous  in  his 
stride.  Once,  lingering,  curious  and  fearful 
to  find  whether  the  pursuit  still  held  in  his 
trail,  he  had  shown  himself  among  the  trees. 
Then  a  futile  bullet  drove  him  on  still  faster. 
162 


The  moose  —  a  big  bull  —  still  was  travelling,  vigorous  in  his  stride. 


ON  THE  SNOW.  163 

Verily,  Lemaire  was  right.  "  Hunh  —  deer," 
said  he,  "deer  run  round  and  round."  He 
leaned  over  and  heaved  his  pack  higher 
up  on  his  shoulders,  moving  the  tump-line 
band  where  it  had  cut  deeply  into  his  brow. 
"  Deer  go  round  an'  round.  Moose  not  like 
deer.  Moose  know  a  place  far  'way — moose 
go  there!"  He  beckoned  me  to  follow,  and 
took  up  the  trail.  In  the  beginning,  his 
eye  had  glistened  with  a  vivid  passion  of 
the  chase,  but  now  it  pored  dully  upon  the 
tangled  covers.  "  Bimeby  moose  get  mad. 
Then  moose  turn  round  fight."  But  now 
the  second  day  was  ending,  and  the  bull  still 
postponed  his  temerarious  last  frenzy  of  fear. 

The  track  dipped  over  the  brow  of  a  tall 
ridge,  where,  on  the  right,  a  thicket  of  black 
spruce  turned  their  slender  spires  whisper- 
ing toward  the  sky.  Yet  even  this  secret 
murmuring  of  the  wind  among  the  tops 
added  to  the  utter  quiet  of  the  woods.  Soli- 
tude was  there,  and  a  deep  silence  too. 

Lemaire  paused  and  brushed  away  the 
matted  hair  hanging  before  his  eyes.  He 


1 64  IN  THE  FOREST. 

swept  the  woods  with  an  inquiring  glance, 
hurried  onward,  halted,  and  then,  turning 
abruptly  from  the  trail,  pushed  through  the 
abattis  of  a  windfall.  Beyond  lay  an  open- 
ing in  the  trees,  a  narrow  interval  sheeted 
with  snow,  and  at  its  head  he  stopped, 
transfixed. 

Age  had  told  lightly  upon  Lemaire.  He 
carried  the  weight  of  his  threescore  years 
strongly,  as  the  bull  moose  swings  his  heavy 
yellow  antlers  in  the  rut.  His  blanket 
mackinaw  hung  squarely  upon  his  broad, 
determined  shoulders ;  his  eyes  gleamed 
keenly,  almost  with  the  fire  of  youth.  He 
stood,  drawn  forward,  peering  beneath  his 
uplifted  hand.  Had  he  seen  the  game  — 
quick  —  where  was  it?  Lemaire  shook  his 
head  and  breathed  deeply.  His  hand 
stretched  slowly  out,  pointing  along  the 
interval.  "  Look  —  so,"  said  he. 

In  the  glade's  centre  was  a  cross,  rude 
and  uncouth,  a  vivid  emblem  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  death,  shining  there  against  the 
black  background  of  spruce,  solitary  in  this 


ON  THE  SNOW.  165 

appalling  stretch  of  solitude.  Lemaire  lifted 
the  tump-line  from  his  brow  and  made  the 
holy  sign.  Silently,  as  before,  he  turned 
then,  and  pushed  on.  Night  was  drawing 
down,  and  anew  the  evening  wind  stirred 
among  the  trees.  Dark  and  dejected, 
Lemaire  threaded  the  dusky  closes  of  the 
wilderness,  silent  till  he  reached  a  hollow 
under  the  hill.  "Camp  now,"  he  muttered 
brusquely.  "  Pretty  soon  dark  —  bimeby 
cold,  sartin  mighty  cold." 

Still  in  this  dark  humour  he  scraped  away 
the  snow  and  laid  a  fire.  He  hung  over  it, 
husbanding  its  first  flickering  blaze,  and  in 
the  glow  his  face  showed  heavy  and  drawn. 
From  under  the  rim  of  his  sable  cap  he 
pored  blankly  upon  the  fire;  then,  when  it 
had  burst  into  a  cheerful  flame,  he  put  on 
the  frying-pan,  the  bacon,  the  kettle,  and 
the  tea.  "  Tired  out,  Lemaire  ? "  He 
turned  stolidly,  his  expression  unchanged, 
and  slowly  shook  his  head.  "Hunh!"  he 
answered,  "  tired  to-morrow  —  nex'  day  — 
mebbe.  Not  tired  now."  Once  more  he 


166  IN  THE  FOREST. 

bent  over  the  fire,  turning  the  bacon  with 
his  skinning-knife,  and  shaking  the  kettle 
of  tea.  But  this  done,  he  fell  anew  into 
his  slow  dejection,  and  sat,  stolidly  gloom- 
ing upon  the  dark  forest's  flank  until  the 
bacon  was  in  a  fair  way  to  burn. 

"  Hoh-tay-0  / "  he  cried  abruptly,  in  the 
tongue  of  his  Algonquin  mother.  "  Wee 
wuish  a-shum-sun.  Tea  —  I  am  hungry ! " 
Leaping  to  his  feet,  he  snatched  off  the 
bacon  and  the  tea,  laid  out  his  cups  and 
birch-bark  plates,  and  with  a  clattering  knife 
fell  to  work  at  his  food. 

Overhead  the  stellar  host  burned  with  all 
their  brilliance  in  the  unclouded  winter  sky, 
and  around  the  night  camp  a  swirl  of  pun- 
gent smoke  wreathed  among  the  trees. 
Lemaire  drew  his  blanket  about  his  knees, 
and  a  garrulous  pipe  came  forth  and  added 
strong  incense  to  the  clear  and  frosty  air. 
Once  a  fox  barked  shrilly  in  the  distance, 
and  in  the  north  an  owl  screamed  its  af- 
frighted note.  Lemaire  listened.  The  echo 
passed,  and  the  dead  forest  regained  its  quiet. 


ON  THE  SNOW.  167 

"  Over  there,"  he  said,  waving  his  arm 
broadly  toward  the  north,  "  are  many  graves 
of  my  people.  Where  shall  you  find  them  ? 
Mujizowaja  —  Abittibe — the  lost  Kwing- 
wishe  —  yes,  in  many  places ;  from  there  to 
the  big  water  on  the  edge  of  the  high 
ground.  There  is  where  they  sleep  —  many 
of  them — yet  / — I  am  here.  Listen.  Many 
winters  ago  —  more  snows  than  you  have 
seen  —  the  moose  went  eastward,  and  the 
caribou  travelled  far  out  there,  far  beyond 
this  country  —  up  there  where  there  are  no 
trees.  Hunger  then  came  to  the  tribes,  and 
many  died  in  the  lodges.  It  struck  the  old 
people,  and  they  were  dead.  It  touched  the 
little  children,  and  they  breathed  no  more. 
I  myself  saw  it  —  for  I  was  a  young  man  then 
among  my  people  —  I  and  my  brother." 

He  spoke,  halting  in  his  words,  his  lan- 
guage partly  English,  partly  the  patois  of 
the  French-Canadian,  and  here  and  there  a 
hoarse  guttural  of  Algonquin. 

"  There  was  no  meat  among  my  people, 
and  the  summer's  dried  fish  was  gone.  Nor 


1 68  IN  THE  FOREST. 

were  there  rabbits,  for  it  was  the  year  of 
their  evil,  and  they  died.  'Come,'  said  my 
brother,  'we  will  go  south  to  the  Temis- 
camingue,  the  Deep  Water,  to  the  company 
post  where  my  father's  money  waits.  Then 
we  shall  buy  flour  and  fat  meat,  and  our 
throats  shall  no  longer  parch  for  want  of  tea. 
Come/  Fear,  then,  was  in  my  heart.  Many 
winters  before  had  my  father  lived  here 
among  these  my  mother's  people.  He  was 
a  white  man  —  like  you  —  from  the  place 
where  there  are  many  houses.  Yes,  I  have 
seen  him.  I  am  a  big  man  like  him,  and  my 
blood  is  strong.  I  do  not  blame  him.  He 
went  away ;  but  many  years,  when  the  fur 
canoes  came  down  from  the  north,  there  was 
money  for  us  at  the  post.  He  did  not  for- 
get, twenty  —  yes,  thirty  —  snows  ago,  when 
there  was  no  money,  I  knew  he  was  dead. 

"  My  brother  said  these  words,  *  Let  us  go.' 
In  my  heart  was  fear.  I  looked  about,  and 
my  mother's  eye  was  on  mine,  as  she  lay 
weak  among  the  rabbit  blankets  of  fur. 
Down  there  —  there  at  Temiscamingue  —  we 


ON  THE  SNOW.  169 

should  laugh  in  our  hearts  at  death.  But 
how  should  our  mother  find  her  way  ?  Even 
now  death  had  touched  her,  and  her  breath 
whistled  as  she  breathed.  My  brother  spoke 
again.  '  I  cannot  stay/  he  said,  and  my 
mother's  eye  turned  from  him  to  me.  '  Go,' 
she  whispered ;  *  you  are  strong,  and  for  me, 
death  scrapes  his  finger  upon  the  lodge's 
door.  I  shall  go  the  long  journey.1 

"  '  Why  do  you  go  ? '  I  cried  strongly,  for 
he  was  my  brother  and  I  loved  him.  An- 
other I  should  have  pushed  out  into  the  snow, 
to  go  his  way  as  he  chose.  But  he  was  my 
brother.  He  did  not  speak,  but  turned  away. 
Then  I  cried  roughly  to  him.  There  was 
hot  blood  in  our  hearts,  and  he  struck  me  on 
the  mouth.  No  man  had  done  that  before, 
and  my  anger  was  great  —  mad  like  the  she- 
bear  in  the  spring.  We  fought  —  strongly, 
for  we  were  big  men.  And  as  we  fought 
there  was  a  cry.  We  looked  about.  Our 
mother  was  dead.  Then  we  fought  no  more. 
I  heard  the  wailing  of  women  in  other  lodges, 
and  I  longed  to  cry  out  too.  But  I  was  a 


170  IN  THE  FOREST. 

man  and  must  not.  So  I  sat  beside  my 
mother,  and  took  her  hand,  and  my  brother 
sat  on  the  other  side,  and  took  her  hand  too. 
I  saw  his  heart  had  softened,  and  I  was  glad, 
and  I  thought  that  the  hunger,  maybe,  had 
made  his  heart  bad  before.  But  then  I  did 
not  know. 

"  The  good  father  at  the  post  had  taught 
me  many  good  words,  and  I  prayed.  I 
prayed  in  my  own  tongue.  I  felt  it  was  good. 
My  brother  heard,  but  did  not  understand. 
He  knew  only  the  rum  trader  and  the  head 
man  at  the  post ;  also  only  the  fur  traders 
who  go  up  to  the  big  water  along  the  water 
trail.  They  say  the  words  I  spoke  only  in 
anger,  and  using  them  strangely.  He  heard 
my  words,  but  did  not  know.  *  Listen/  he 
said.  '  You  cannot  wake  our  mother.  She 
sleeps  on  the  long  journey.  Come,  we  will 
bury  our  mother,  and  take  the  trail  to  the 
Deep  Water.  Let  us  go.' 

"  He  went  away  in  the  darkness,  but  soon 
he  was  back.  '  Look/  he  said,  *  I  have  food. 
Eat  and  we  will  go.'  I  looked  at  the  food 


ON  THE  SNOW.  171 

and  wondered.  It  was  the  meat  of  the  cari- 
bou, dried,  and  there  had  been  no  caribou 
since  two  snows  had  gone.  *  What  is  this 
meat  ?  '  I  asked,  and  my  brother  turned  his 
face.  *  Eat,'  he  said,  and  I  ate,  tearing  the 
meat  with  my  teeth,  like  the  gray  wolf  at  the 
moose's  throat.  Yet  I  wondered.  '  Come, 
we  will  bury  our  mother  now.'  But  we  were 
too  weak  with  the  long  hunger.  We  could 
not  dig  the  snow,  and  how  should  we,  then, 
break  the  hardened  ground.  '  Peace,  mother,' 
said  I.  *  I  shall  return  in  the  long  days  — 
peace  and  sleep.' 

"  My  brother  waited  by  the  lodge.  I  saw 
that  he  stepped  more  strongly,  and  wondered. 
Had  not  the  long  hunger  made  me  weak  who 
was  once  so  much  stronger  than  my  brother  ? 
But  my  thought  was  like  a  dream,  and  I  was 
dizzy  like  one  who  has  the  hot  sickness  and 
cries  out  strange  things  that  have  no  mean- 
ing. I  followed,  but  I  knew  that  it  was  the 
upper  trail  —  the  long  path  leading  to  the 
big  water  —  the  Kitci-gami — at  the  edge  of 
the  high  ground  where  there  are  no  trees. 


172  IN  THE  FOREST. 

'  This  is  not  the  trail,'  said  I ;  but  he  shook 
his  head  and  bade  me  follow. 

"  There  was  light,  for  the  night  had  gone. 
We  went  to  the  north,  and  by  and  by  there 
was  a  trail  of  two  people  in  the  snow.  I 
looked  and  saw  that  they  led  back  and  forth, 
and  that  one  was  a  woman.  My  brother 
took  my  little  bag  of  food  from  me,  and 
threw  it  down  at  the  door  of  the  last  lodge. 
It  was  the  place  of  the  chiefs  son,  and  he 
was  wealthy.  Many  winters  have  passed 
since  then,  and  I  have  forgotten  his  name  — 
Muckwa,  I  think  it  was  —  Muckwa  the  bear. 
He  too  died  in  the  long  hunger.  But  I  cried 
out,  knowing  that  he  had  much  and  we  little 
for  the  journey.  It  was  many  camps  beyond 
to  the  deep  water,  and  I  tried  to  seize  the 
food.  But  my  brother  laughed,  not  like  a 
man,  but  like  the  cackle  of  Kwingwishe,  the 
meat  bird.  '  Leave  it.  Peace !  There  is 
more  and  better,  and  I  give  him  that.  Go 
on/  I  came  away,  for  I  walked  still  in  a 
dream,  and  nothing  was  as  it  should  be. 
Then  we  came  to  where  the  long  muskeg 


ON  THE  SNOW.  173 

touches  on  the  pond  of  many  moose,  and  we 
crossed  upon  the  ice,  following  in  the  tracks 
that  the  man  and  woman  had  made.  There 
my  brother  stepped  from  the  trail  sharply, 
as  one  turns  from  the  moose  track  when  the 
wind  is  blowing  and  the  moose  has  turned 
to  lie  down  where  he  can  smell  the  foe  on 
his  trail.  '  Come/  said  my  brother,  but  I 
kept  on.  He  called  again,  but  I  kept  on 
many  steps.  Before  long  I  saw  a  man  in 
the  snow,  and  he  was  lying  down.  He  slept, 
I  thought,  and  there  was  the  trail  of  a  sledge 
in  the  snow  and  the  tracks  made  by  the  feet 
of  many  huskies.  '  Look,'  I  said,  crying  out, 
'  here  is  a  man  from  the  big  water  where  the 
streams  run  the  other  way.  Come,  we  will 
waken  him.'  I  saw  he  was  from  the  north, 
for  he  wore  the  high  moccasins  of  fur  made 
from  the  big  otters  without  legs,  that  play 
on  the  rocks  of  the  big  water  over  there. 
Also,  he -still  held  in  his  hand  a  bone  knife, 
such  as  there  was  not  among  our  people. 
'  Hoh ! '  I  cried,  but  he  did  not  awaken. 
Then  I  saw  that  he  was  dead.  He  had 


174  IN  THE  FOREST. 

been  stabbed  in  the  back,  and  there  were 
the  marks  of  the  woman's  feet  beside  him. 
1  Hoh  ! '  I  cried,  '  he  is  dead ! '  But  my 
brother  did  not  come,  but  beckoned  me  on. 
I  followed,  and  called  out  to  him,  but  he 
gave  no  answer.  Then  I  ran,  falling  this 
way  and  there,  like  my  people  when  they 
have  tasted  the  trader's  rum.  But  my 
brother  ran  too,  and  we  reached  the  edge  of 
the  bush.  I  heard  then  a  dog  bark,  and 
another.  In  our  people's  keep  were  no  dogs, 
for  the  last  had  been  killed  long  before  in 
our  hunger.  Then  I  looked  and  saw  a 
sledge  and  dogs,  and  it  was  of  the  country 
where  there  are  no  trees.  I  knew,  for  the 
sledge  runners  were  of  bone,  and  lower  than 
we  use  here  where  the  snows  are  deeper 
than  the  reach  of  the  biggest  moose.  But 
I  saw  no  more,  for  I  fell,  and  my  mind 
turned  from  me.  I  was  like  the  dead  man 
in  the  trail;  I  knew  nothing. 

"  When  I  awoke,  I  lay  in  a  sledge  and  we 
were  on  the  ice.  We  crossed  there  and 
went  up  into  the  bush.  There  I  saw  a 


ON  THE  SNOW.  175 

woman  waiting  among  the  trees,  and  now 
she  ran  with  the  dogs.  I  covered  my  face, 
for  still  I  was  weak  and  did  not  know. 
*  Hoh ! '  I  cried,  *  it  is  our  mother's  spirit, 
and  she  walks  beside  us  in  the  snow ! '  But 
a  laugh  answered,  and  it  was  not  my  mother's 
voice.  I  looked  again,  and  the  woman 
turned.  I  saw  it  was  Pin-e-ah,  Muckwa's 
wife,  the  stranger-woman  who  came  from  up 
there  where  there  are  no  trees.  She  was 
smaller  than  our  women,  and  her  face  was 
round,  with  eyes  turned  up  —  so.  Nor  could 
she  speak  our  tongue  when  first  she  came 
among  us.  She  ran  now  beside  the  dogs, 
and  I  said,  'Tell  me,  O  Pin-e-ah,  where  is 
thy  husband?  Does  he  come  with  us?  And 
this,  no  doubt,  is  his  dog-sledge.'  But  she 
laughed,  and  ran  beside  the  sledge.  '  No,' 
she  said,  'this  is  the  sledge  of  good 
Maatuke,  who  rests  up  yonder  a  while. 
Peace  to  him.'  I  thought  for  a  while,  but 
did  not  understand.  Then  I  knew.  '  Hoh 
—  it  is  Maatuke  lying  up  there  in  the  snow. 
He  is  dead,  and,  brother,  thou  hast  slain  the 


176  IN  THE  FOREST. 

stranger.'  My  brother's  heart  was  black, 
and  he  made  no  answer.  But  Pin-e-ah 
laughed,  crying  out,  *'Twas  I  that  did  it,' 
she  said,  and  I  wondered  at  this  woman  of 
evil.  She  laughed,  singing,  like  the  hunter 
when  he  has  killed  the  moose,  and  blood  was 
on  her  hand. 

" '  Listen,'  she  said.  *  He  was  my  lover 
over  there  —  in  the  land  where  there  are  no 
trees.  Then  Muckwa  came,  and  he  was 
stronger,  so  I  went  with  him.  He  brought 
me  here,  into  the  land  of  the  big  sticks,  and 
I  was  his.  Now,  in  this  the  long  hunger, 
Maatuke  comes  with  his  dogs  to  take  me, 
for  he  has  heard  of  the  trouble  among  your 
people  from  the  hunters  that  have  gone  into 
the  north.  Yet  I  do  not  go  with  Maatuke. 
He  is  waiting.  He  is  lying  in  the  snow  to 
rest  after  his  journey.'  She  laughed  again. 

" '  Hoh  ! '  I  cried,  stopping  the  dogs.  I 
arose,  walking  beside  the  sledge.  '  Tell  me, 
O  Pin-e-ah,  why  is  thy  husband  Muckwa 
not  with  us  ?  There  is  food  and  plenty  here 
for  all.'  Again  she  laughed. 


ON  THE  SNOW.  177 

" '  Also  he  is  lying  up  there  beyond.  Let 
him  lie  and  rest  himself,  for  he  will  have  a 
long  journey  if  he  follow,  pot  dog  that  he  is.' 

"  I  followed  in  the  sledge  trail,  wondering, 
for  I  did  not  understand.  '  Tell  me,  my 
brother,'  I  asked,  'why  does  this  woman 
come  with  us  ? '  He  looked,  and  showed 
me  his  teeth,  like  huskies  fighting  over  a 
rotten  fish.  *  Have  done,'  he  spoke,  '  she 
comes  with  me.' 

"  Three  days  we  journeyed,  and  I  grew 
strong.  Boasting,  this  woman  told  me  all. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  long  hunger,  be- 
cause she  knew  by  the  signs  her  people 
learn  that  it  was  there,  she  had  saved 
largely  of  Muckwa's  food.  She  had  laid  it 
where  no  hand  but  hers  should  take  it,  and 
Muckwa  soon  felt  the  grip  of  the  hunger 
upon  him.  But  she  had  not  given  him  of 
her  hidden  store.  She  had  fed  herself  and 
then  my  brother,  bringing  in  her  hand  a 
piece  each  day.  Thus  they  had  lived,  and 
our  mother  had  died,  for  he  was  to  keep  up 
and  have  this  woman  for  his  own.  '  And 


178  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Muckwa?'  I  asked.  'What  of  Muckwa,  O 
Pin-e-ah  ? '  She  looked  and  laughed. 

" '  Twice  have  I  said  it.  Muckwa  lies 
over  yonder.  He  is  gone  on  the  long  jour- 
ney. He  left  nothing,  yet  good  Maatuke 
brought  us  meat/ 

"  Then  I  knew  that  the  bag  of  food  my 
brother  had  cast  before  the  door  of  Muckwa's 
lodge  was  but  an  offering  to  the  dead.  I 
cried  out,  for  my  heart  was  sad,  *  Peace,  O 
Muckwa,  son  of  Kab-a-o-sis !  Peace  to  thee.' 
For  he,  likewise,  was  dead  —  dead  because 
of  this  woman  that  had  come  down  from  the 
land  where  there  are  no  trees.  *  O  Pin-e-ah,' 
I  said,  and  my  heart  was  hot  with  anger  that 
was  for  her,  'thou  art  a  thing  of  evil.  Was 
not  Muckwa  thy  husband,  for  he  ran  beneath 
the  blanket  with  thee?'  And  she  laughed 
aloud,  while  her  eyes  shone  as  those  of  the 
wolf-devil  when  he  sings  outside  the  hunter's 
fire.  *  Ay,  he  was  my  husband  according 
to  thy  people ;  but  am  I  a  kimack,  a  mangy 
sledge  dog,  that  is  whipped  among  the  traces, 
that  he  should  beat  me  with  his  hand  ? ' 


ON  THE  SNOW.  179 

"Again  I  wondered,  for  this  woman  was 
not  like  the  women  of  my  tribe.  '  Tell  me,'  I 
said,  *  among  thy  women  is  not  love  taught 
with  a  hand  that  is  strong  ? '  She  arose 
then,  drawing  her  blanket  about  her.  '  Many 
women  are  there  who  listen  weakly  while 
the  dog  whip  cracks,  yet  I  am  not  one.  I 
am  the  daughter  of  a  chief,  and  my  will  is 
strong,  like  the  mad-wolf,  that  cannot  be 
driven  in  the  traces  among  the  dogs.  Over 
there'  —  and  she  waved  her  arm  toward  that 
country  many  camps  beyond  — '  I  am  called 
in  our  tongue  Amaroke,  the  She-Wolf,  and 
so  shalt  thou  know  me.' 

"  My  brother  sat  by  the  fire.  He  wound 
a  thong  about  his  gun-barrel,  that  was  broken 
from  the  wood.  He  spoke  not,  but  his  eyes 
looked  upon  the  woman,  strong  with  flame 
for  her.  Again  my  heart  was  troubled,  and 
I  looked  at  him  sitting  by  the  fire. 

" '  Hark  ! '  I  said,  '  O  my  brother ! '  I  arose 
and  threw  the  blanket  from  my  shoulder, 
for  speech  was  on  my  lips.  '  Hark !  O  my 
brother !  This  woman  that  thou  hast  taken 


i8o  IN  THE  FOREST. 

to  thy  breast  is  a  she-wolf,  and  if  thou  cling 
to  her  she  will  gnaw  at  thy  heart.  Turn 
this  woman  away,  my  brother,  lest  thou  die 
as  all  have  died  who  follow.' 

"  Then  this  woman  looked  at  my  brother 
in  the  eyes,  and,  seeing  what  they  spoke, 
looked  boldly  at  me  and  laughed.  Nor  did 
she  look  with  hate,  but  as  the  young  woman 
looks  at  her  lover  when  he  brings  home 
plenty  from  the  hunt.  '  Have  done,  O  Mus- 
kosi-Amik,'  she  cried,  calling  me  by  my  Al- 
gonquin name ;  '  am  I  to  be  like  the  wounded 
caribou  that  is  driven  from  the  herd  ?  Thou 
art  a  strong  man,  but  I  too  am  strong.' 

"  Then  she  wrapped  the  blanket  about  her 
head  and  lay  beside  the  fire. 

"  Three  times  again  we  camped.  Three 
times  by  the  fire  I  cried  out  to  my  brother 
that  this  woman  was  a  wolf.  '  Let  us  turn 
our  faces  on  the  trail,'  I  said,  '  and  take  back 
this  woman  to  the  place  where  Muckwa  lies 
dead  within  his  lodge.'  But  my  brother 
made  no  answer,  and  Pin-e-ah  laughed, 
looking  at  me  with  eyes  that  burned  wetly, 


ON  THE  SNOW.  181 

like  the  doe's  when  she  licks  her  spotted 
fawn. 

"Six  camps  we  had  come,  breaking  out 
the  trail.  Late  the  sun  left  its  place  among 
the  trees,  and  early  it  lay  down  again,  for  it 
was  the  heart  of  winter.  My  brother  went 
ahead,  beating  down  the  snow  for  the  dogs, 
and  the  woman  ran  beside  the  sledge.  I 
too  went  ahead  when  my  brother's  feet  were 
tired,  but  it  was  not  I  that  led  upon  the  ice. 
One  camp  over  there  we  came  to  a  running 
water,  and  it  was  singing  beneath  the  ice. 
*  Hoh,  my  brother,'  I  said,  'we  shall  go  a 
little  way  before  we  cross  this  running  water, 
lest  we  break  through  and  drown.' 

"  But  he  laughed  aloud,  and  there  was 
anger  and  evil  in  his  eyes.  Maybe,  then,  he 
had  seen  the  woman  looking  at  me  with  eyes 
wet  like  the  mother  doe's ;  but  I  do  not 
know.  '  Come,'  he  said,  '  is  my  brother  a 
coward  that  he  keeps  the  shore  like  Ginibig 
the  wood  snake?  Come.'  And  I  said  no 
more.  Then  my  brother  drove  the  whining 
huskies  forward,  and  the  woman  fell  behind, 


1 82  IN  THE  FOREST. 

watching.  'Thou  art  a  strong  man/  she 
whispered,  'and  no  coward.'  And  I  saw 
her  eyes  peer  up  into  mine.  '  Go ! '  I  cried, 
striking  her  off,  but  she  only  laughed.  My 
brother  went  on,  three  sledges  from  the 
shore,  and  I  heard  the  ice  speaking  out. 
'  Come,  O  my  brother  ! '  I  cried ;  but  the  ice 
spoke  again.  Then  it  broke  across  till  I  saw 
the  river  underneath.  '  O  my  brother,'  I 
cried,  '  thou  art  gone,  and  this  woman  hath 
slain  thee  too  ! '  But  again  I  saw  him,  fight- 
ing for  his  life  among  the  dogs,  and,  forget- 
ting all,  I  ran  and  drew  him  out.  But  as  we 
came  toward  the  shore,  again  the  ice  split 
across,  and  both  were  in  the  water.  Then 
I  heard  the  woman,  and  she  was  lying  on  the 
bank,  and  her  hand  was  stretched  toward 
me.  '  Thy  hand ! '  she  cried,  and  it  was  to 
me  she  spoke.  '  My  brother  drowns ! '  I 
cried ;  and  again  she  spoke,  but  to  me.  '  Thy 
hand,  and  I  will  save  thee.'  And  I  took  her 
hand,  but  held  my  brother  by  his  hair,  and 
she  drew  us  both  ashore.  Then  we  sat  on 
the  bank  and  looked.  Our  sledge  was  gone, 


ON  THE  SNOW.  183 

its  dogs,  and  all  our  meat.  I  only  had  saved 
my  gun,  for  I  had  dropped  it  when  I  ran  to 
my  brother's  help.  So  we  sat  on  the  bank 
till  our  clothes  were  stiff,  like  the  fur  of  the 
beaver  when  it  is  dried  upon  the  splints. 

" '  Come,'  I  said,  '  the  deep  water  lies 
over  there  more  than  seven  camps  away, 
for  now  we  walk.  But  there  is  no  meat, 
and  we  shall  die  ! '  Shaking,  my  brother 
arose,  for  the  cold  had  touched  his  bones. 
One  day  we  walked  and  camped.  Half 
another  day  we  walked,  and  my  brother  sang. 
He  saw  it  was  the  spring  and  that  the  fur 
canoes  came  down  from  the  north  while  the 
traders  sat  in  the  fort.  But  I,  who  was  of 
clear  mind,  saw  that  it  was  still  the  winter, 
and  that  my  brother  went  this  way  and  there, 
like  my  people  when  they  have  tasted  the 
trader's  rum.  'Tell  me,  my  brother,  why 
do  you  sing?'  I  touched  his  skin,  and  it 
was  hot,  like  the  horns  of  the  moose  in  the 
spring.  I  saw  his  eyes,  and  they  were  red 
and  looked  nowhere.  Then  I  knew  that  my 
brother  had  the  cold-sickness,  and  my  throat 


1 84  IN  THE  FOREST. 

with  fear  was  so  that  I  could  not  swallow. 
So  I  walked  on,  holding  my  brother  by 
the  waist,  and  the  woman  walked  behind, 
saying  nothing.  We  camped,  and  in  the 
night  my  brother  talked  aloud,  so  that  the 
forest  was  full  of  sound.  But  when  the  sun 
came  from  the  trees,  he  was  still  breathing 
like  the  caribou  before  it  dies.  He  will  die 
without  food,  I  thought.  I  will  look  in  the 
forest.  I  took  my  gun  and  went  into  the 
bush,  walking  a  short  way.  I  walked  a  little 
further.  Maybe  I  would  see  a  rabbit.  Then 
I  looked  back,  and  there  was  the  woman. 
She  was  walking  behind  me.  '  Come,'  I 
said,  *  you  shall  sit  by  my  brother  while  he 
sleeps.  You  shall  not  follow  me  in  the 
snow.'  But  she  held  up  her  hand,  holding 
the  palm  outward.  '  See,'  she  said,  *  I  have 
brought  the  food.'  Food  she  had,  indeed,  of 
the  dried  flesh  of  the  caribou.  '  Tell  me,  O 
Pin-e-ah,  where  did  you  get  this  food  ? ' 
And  she  laughed.  *  Strong  man,  you  would 
turn  me  away  in  the  snow.  So  I  have  saved 
the  meat  of  the  caribou,  and  hid  it  within 


ON  THE  SNOW.  185 

my  breast.  It  was  to  keep  me  on  the  way, 
so  that  I  could  follow  in  the  trail  of  the  dog 
sledge.' 

"  I  took  the  food  and  held  it  in  my  hand. 
*  Why  do  you  give  me  this  ? '  She  looked 
away,  but  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  soft. 

"  Again  I  spoke  to  her.  *  Why  do  you 
give  me  this  meat  of  the  caribou  ? '  *  I 
know  not/  she  answered,  '  lest  it  is  that  thou 
art  strong  and  that  I  would  have  thee,  O 
Muskosi-Amik '  —  calling  me  in  my  Algon- 
quin name.  Then  I  spat  upon  the  meat, 
and  threw  it  on  the  snow.  *  Go ! '  I  said, 
and  walked  among  the  trees.  I  came  to  a 
ridge,  and  there  was  a  moose.  He  was  a 
big  bull.  He  yarded  alone  because  he  was 
big.  *  Hoh  ! '  I  cried  to  myself,  *  there  is  a 
big  bull.  I  will  kill  him,  and  my  brother 
shall  live.'  I  raised  my  gun.  Then  I  put 
it  down  again.  I  prayed,  saying  the  good 
words  the  father  had  taught  me.  Then  I 
raised  my  gun,  and  fired.  I  saw  him  fall, 
and  ran  in  shouting.  But  he  got  upon  his 
feet,  and  went  away.  I  looked,  and  there 


1 86  IN  THE  FOREST. 

was  blood  upon  the  snow.  I  saw  his  hair 
where  the  bullet  had  cut  it.  I  saw  that 
it  was  yellow,  and  I  knew  I  had  hit  him 
too  low.  I  lifted  the  blood  upon  the  snow, 
and  it  showed  no  froth.  '  Never  mind,'  I 
said,  *  I  will  follow.  Maybe  he  will  fall.' 
So  I  followed  a  long  way  till  he  came  to  the 
ice.  There  he  ran  fast,  and  I  could  not 
catch  him.  So  \  came  up  to  the  camp. 

"  My  brother  lay  by  the  fire.  I  heard  his 
voice,  and  he  talked  with  Muckwa  —  the 
dead  Muckwa,  who  lay  in  his  lodge  over 
there.  They  talked  as  friends,  for  they  had 
often  taken  the  caribou  together.  But  the 
woman  spoke  shrilly,  bidding  him  be  done. 
*  Peace!'  I  said,  standing  before  the  fire. 
She  looked  at  me,  and  saw  that  there  was 
blood  on  my  hands,  where  I  had  lifted  it 
from  the  snow.  *  See,'  she  said  softly,  speak- 
ing that  my  brother  should  not  hear,  'the 
strong  man  returns  and  there  is  moose  meat. 
Come,  we  will  go  and  skin  the  moose.' 

" '  Have  done,'  I  said,  '  I  have  not  killed 
the  moose.' 


ON  THE  SNOW.  187 

"  I  sat  beside  the  fire.  *  You  have  food,' 
I  said ;  '  give  it  to  me,  so  that  my  brother 
may  eat.'  She  drew  her  blanket  about  her, 
and  rose  up.  *  No,'  she  said,  *  he  is  already 
starting  on  the  long  journey,  and  needs  no 
food.  I  and  you  shall  eat.'  I  thought  a 
while,  'Shall  I  kill  this  woman?'  Then 
I  remembered  the  good  words  the  father 
spoke,  and  I  said,  '  No,  I  cannot  kill  this 
woman.'  So  I  said  :  — 

" '  Pin-e-ah,  give  me  food ;  I  am  hungry.' 
I  said  to  myself,  *  I  will  get  this  food,  and 
give  it  to  my  brother.'  So  she  gave  me  a 
part  of  the  caribou  meat,  and  I  made  a  pot 
of  birch  bark.  I  thought  to  myself,  *  I  will 
boil  it  for  my  brother.'  She  sat  beside  me, 
and  put  her  hand  upon  my  shoulder.  'Listen, 
O  Muskosi-Amik,'  she  said,  calling  on  me  by 
my  Algonquin  name.  '  Thou  art  a  strong 
man,  and  shall  live.  I  will  go  with  you.' 
She  looked  at  me  with  her  eyes  wet  like 
the  eyes  of  the  mother  doe,  and  I  trembled. 
For  I  was  afraid  of  this  woman,  the  She- 
Wolf,  who  came  from  the  land  where  the 


I887  IN  THE  FOREST. 

streams  run  the  other  way;  from  the  land 
where  there  are  no  trees. 

" '  Hoh ! '  cried  my  brother,  rising  up.  He 
threw  off  the  skins,  and  looked  at  the 
woman.  Then  he  looked  at  me,  and  at  the 
pot  of  birch  bark  boiling  on  the  fire.  *  Hoh ! ' 
he  cried.  *  There  is  food,  and  yet  I  starve ! ' 
He  reached  for  the  pot,  but  the  woman 
struck  down  his  hand.  *  Hoh ! '  he  cried, 
'  am  I  Muckwa  to  die  like  this  ? '  He  struck 
the  woman  on  the  face,  and  she  fell.  '  Peace, 

0  my  brother ! '  I  said,  and  he  turned,  roar- 
ing  strange   words.      '  Thou,  too,'   he   said, 
and  fell  upon  me.     The  fever-madness  had 
made  him  strong,  and  I  was  a  child  in  his 
arms.     He  threw  me  on  the  snow,  holding 
one   hand   upon  my  throat.      In  his  other 
he  held  the  skinning-knife.    '  Hoh ! '  he  cried, 
putting   it   to   my   throat,    'thou,    too,  shall 
die.'     He  raised  his  hand  to  thrust,  and  then 

1  should  have  died.      *  Peace,  O  brother ! ' 
I  cried  aloud.     Then  I  heard  a  loud  noise 
and  my  mouth  was  filled  with  smoke.     My 
brother    fell    on    my    face,    and    his    hand 


ON  THE  SNOW.  189 

loosened  upon  my  throat.  My  eyes  were 
blinded,  and  my  face  was  sticky  wet  as 
with  sap  when  the  trees  run  in  the  spring. 
*  Hoh  ! '  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  am  dead.'  But 
I  was  not  hurt.  I  pushed  my  brother  from 
me,  and  looked  up.  Pin-e-ah  stood  beside 
us,  and  my  gun  smoked  in  her  hands.  I 
looked  about,  and  my  brother  lay  upon 
his  face.  He  was  dead.  '  You  have  killed 
my  brother,  O  Pin-e-ah/  I  said,  and  she 
shook  her  head.  *  No  —  yes  —  and  I  have 
saved  thy  life/ 

"  *  Thou  hast  saved  my  life,  but  look,  thou 
woman  of  evil,  thou  hast  slain  my  brother.' 

"  I  sat  by  the  fire  and  the  night  went  away. 
I  saw  the  sun  come  out  of  the  trees.  I 
wrapped  my  brother  in  his  blanket  and 
carried  him  into  the  bush.  The  woman  sat 
by  the  fire  and  held  my  gun  between  her 
knees.  I  saw  that  it  was  loaded  again. 
'  Give  me  my  gun,'  I  said,  but  she  shook  her 
head.  '  I  will  keep  thy  gun,  O  Muskosi- 
Amik,'  she  answered,  *  and  I  shall  go  with 
you,  following  behind.  Come,  shall  we  go  ? ' 


190  IN  THE  FOREST. 

I  looked  at  her  and  smiled,  lying  like  the 
traders  in  those  days  when  they  took  the  fur 
of  the  tribes. 

"  *  Yes,  you  shall  go,  and  I  shall  carry  the 
meat  you  have,  because  I  am  strong.'  Then, 
too,  she  smiled,  calling  me  a  strong  man,  and 
handing  me  the  meat.  *  But  I  will  walk 
behind/ 

"  '  Give  me  the  gun/  I  said ;  *  I  am  strong 
and  will  carry  that  too/ 

"  *  No,  I  will  walk  behind,  carrying  your  gun.' 

"  So  I  walked  ahead,  and  when  we  got 
among  the  trees  I  ran.  *  Do  not  run ! '  she 
cried,  and  I  looked  behind  me.  I  saw  her 
point  the  gun,  and  jumped  behind  a  tree, 
like  the  deer  when  he  is  frightened.  Then 
she  fired,  and  I  went  back,  unharmed,  and 
plucked  the  gun  from  her  hands  before  she 
could  load  again.  I  took  the  powder  and  the 
bullets,  and  she  crouched  at  my  feet  like  the 
husky  when  the  whip  cracks  over  him  in 
the  snow.  *  Come,'  I  said,  *  we  will  go. 
Come,  chief's  daughter,  She- Wolf  from  the 
land  where  there  are  no  trees.' 


ON  THE  SNOW.  191 

"  I  led  her  among  the  trees,  and  she  wept 
— '  Ay-I-ay-I !  You  will  take  me  with  you 
on  the  way  ? '  I  said,  '  Yes/  but  smiling  no 
more.  '  Yes,  I  will  take  you  on  the  way,  Pin- 
e-ah.  It  is  a  long  journey  we  shall  take.' 

"  It  snowed  then.  I  went  a  long  way, 
camping  twice,  and  we  came  into  this  coun- 
try. It  snowed  again,  and  hid  our  tracks 
almost  under  our  feet.  *  It  is  good/  I 
thought,  *  for  this  woman  from  the  land  where 
there  are  no  trees  cannot  find  her  way  among 
the  bush.  Good-by,  O  Pin-e-ah/ 

I  ran  and  she  followed.  But  I  was  a  strong 
man,  and  ran  far  ahead.  Then  I  hid  in  the 
bushes,  doubling  on  my  track  like  the  bull 
moose  when  he  rests.  I  saw  her  run  by,  call- 
ing; she  was  calling  me  in  my  Algonquin 
name.  But  I  let  her  go  by.  I  knew  she 
could  not  find  me,  nor  could  she  find  her 
way  among  the  trees.  So  I  laughed,  for  my 
heart  was  bad.  I  walked  away  and  camped. 
I  sat  in  the  snow,  with  my  blanket  about  my 
knees  and  a  little  fire  between.  She  should 
not  see  my  fire,  I  said.  Once  I  heard  her 


i92  IN  THE  FOREST. 

calling  in  the  night.  She  called  then  three 
times,  and  after  that  she  screamed  like  the 
cat-owl  when  he  hunts.  I  smiled.  When 
the  sun  came  up  from  the  trees,  there  was  no 
snow  in  the  sky.  So  I  walked  back  a  long 
way,  and  there  were  her  tracks.  I  followed. 
Sometimes  she  ran,  but  not  for  long.  But  I 
was  strong  and  soon  caught  up.  She  had 
fallen  in  the  snow,  yet  she  was  not  dead.  I 
watched,  and  she  arose  from  the  snow.  She 
looked  around  and  ran.  Sometimes  she 
yelled,  for  when  one  has  a  fear  among  the 
trees  and  is  lost,  he  runs  and  wastes  his 
breath  in  screaming.  So  I  watched  her  a 
long  way,  and  then  I  went  back  to  my 
brother  where  he  lay  in  the  snow.  '  Come/ 
I  said,  '  I  will  take  you  to  the  fort,  and  then 
you  shall  lie  among  your  people.  Come/  So 
I  took  him  on  my  shoulders  and  —  many 
days  I  walked  —  and  brought  him  to  the  fort. 
"  *  Father/  I  said,  *  here  is  my  brother.  He 
is  dead,  and  I  have  left  the  woman  from  the 
land  where  there  are  no  trees  over  there  in 
the  bush/ 


ON  THE  SNOW.  193 

" '  You  have  done  evil,  my  son,'  he  said. 
*  Go  find  the  woman  who  was  from  the  land 
where  there  are  no  trees.' 

"So  I  went  to  find  her.  Many  days  I 
looked,  for  she  had  run  far  among  the  trees. 
It  was  when  the  sun  shines  longest  that  I 
saw  where  she  fell.  A  bear  had  been  there 
—  Muckwa  in  his  spirit.  He  had  torn  the 
woman  from  the  north,  for  his  rage,  no  doubt, 
was  great.  So  I  buried  her,  and  this  is  her 
cross  that  stands  in  the  bush." 

Lemaire  arose  and  threw  a  log  upon  the 
fire.  The  leaping  flame  lighted  his  face,  and 
calmness  lay  upon  it.  He  stood  a  moment 
staring  into  the  snow.  Then  he  waved  his 
arm  broadly. 

"  Many  snows  have  passed  since  then," 
he  said. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

AT   THE   END    OF   THE   TRAIL. 

EASTWARD  from  the  head  of  the 
Little  Tobique,  the  breasting  ridges 
sweep  upward  into  the  pinnacle  of  Bald 
Mountain  in  the  north.  Austere  and 
lonely,  the  peak,  mantled  with  gloomy 
conifers,  frowns  down  upon  the  houseless 
forest  marches  where  Nictau  and  Bathurst 
gleam  like  gems  lost  among  the  trees ;  at 
the  south  writhes  the  Mamoziekel  through 
swamp  and  barren  ground,  while  on  the 
other  hand  is  forgotten  country,  until  one 
comes  into  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Upsal- 
quitch.1  Thus  in  the  solitude  it  stands, 
genius  of  the  untrammelled  wild,  long  ago 
the  place  of  Manitou  where  the  pagan 
Milicete  prayed  when  thunder  muttered 
among  its  crags.  Even  to-day  the  moose 

1  Pronounced  Ab-see-goosk. 
194 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        195 

and  the  uneasy  caribou  ply  among  its 
thickets ;  for,  in  a  word,  it  is  the  wilder- 
ness itself. 

It  snowed.  The  flaws  flew  across  the 
breast  of  the  mountain  in  blue,  bewilder- 
ing flurries.  It  was  spring,  to  be  sure,  but 
even  in  the  lowlands  winter  lingered.  The 
moose  herd,  haggard  from  battle  with  the 
passing  season,  had  broken  yard,  and  were 
abroad  in  search  of  food.  Along  the  awak- 
ening streams  the  red  willow  was  bursting 
into  bud,  and  on  the  southern  slopes  rare 
sprigs  of  green  showed  bravely  between  the 
wasting  drifts.  One  by  one,  the  old  bull, 
the  cows,  and  last  year's  calves  wandered 
from  the  winter  resting-place;  and  after 
months  of  frozen  bark  and  acrid  evergreen 
the  tender  buds  were  delicious  morsels. 
They  revelled  in  the  feast,  feeding  heavily, 
and  with  the  rising  day  lay  down  to  ru- 
minate in  content.  All  were  uncouth  and 
gaunt ;  there  were  cavernous  hollows  in 
their  flanks,  while,  rusty  black,  their  winter 
coat  fell  in  patches  from  their  sides.  In 


196  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  lead  walked  the  stiff-legged  bull,  guard- 
ing from  the  trees  the  horns  just  sprouting 
sorely  from  their  pedicles ;  and  at  his  heels 
was  a  companion  cow,  weary  and  big  with 
her  burden;  behind  her,  a  last  year's  calf 
skipping  awkwardly,  with  awakening  spirits. 
Thus  they  bore  down  into  the  lowlands,  and 
there  a  little  stranger  came  into  the  world. 
Surely  it  was  a  cheerless  coming  into 
life.  The  snow  pellets  flipped  freezing 
among  the  trees;  its  first  sensation  was  of 
chill.  The  wind,  rioting  down  from  the 
mountain,  roared  a  rough  lullaby  among 
the  treetops,  while  the  shuddering  cow 
stood  over  her  calf,  swaying  like  a  weav- 
ing horse.  Then  the  snow  flaw  passed, 
and  the  sun  broke  weakly  through  the  cloud 
bank,  dimly  lighting  the  copse  wherein  the 
uncouth  little  one  lay.  Uncouth,  yes;  for 
there  was  neither  strength  nor  beauty  in 
the  calf.  Its  legs  were  long,  too  long  for 
grace.  Its  puny  body  seemed  hanging  un- 
fitly upon  these  shambling  stilts,  and  their 
thinness  and  utter  inability  were  displayed 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        197 

more  obviously  when,  later,  it  shuffled 
loosely  to  its  feet.  But  mother  pride  saw 
much  even  in  the  spindly  yellow  shanks 
and  quivering  form.  The  cow  moose, 
whimpering  like  an  eager  hound,  drooled 
over  her  offspring,  mouthing  it  with  tender 
concern.  She  rubbed  her  cheek  along  its 
flank,  her  beady  eyes  for  once  doting  softly, 
while  the  heir  to  all  this  heritage  of  track- 
less solitude  trembled  in  the  wind. 

It  was  a  bull  calf,  and  this  much  the 
mother  saw :  its  legs,  though  seeming  puny, 
were  really  big  of  bone ;  there  was  a  telling 
breadth  of  brow ;  and  the  dip  of  the  chest 
told,  too,  that  it  would  have  heart  and  a 
strenuous  power  of  lungs.  She  noted  the 
reach  of  its  hocks,  and  the  height  between 
its  elbow  and  the  crest  of  the  hump,  and 
knew  from  these  that,  one  day,  as  a  great 
bull,  this  her  offspring  should  be  a  lord 
among  the  giants  of  the  hardwood  ridges 
and  the  swamp.  So  she  was  satisfied. 

The  first  steps  of  the  heir  were  in  the 
blind  valley  where  it  was  born.  The  place 


198  IN  THE  FOREST. 

was  shut  in  at  each  side  by  thickets  of 
birch  poles  and  straggling,  stunted  spruce. 
At  one  end  was  a  steep  acclivity;  at  the 
other  a  shallow  stream,  that  leaped  and 
bubbled  down  the  pitch  from  the  dead 
water  above  to  the  big  bay  in  Nictau  be- 
low. Life  seemed  a  pleasing  fancy,  indeed, 
until  one  day  the  calf  learned  that  there 
are  contrasts  in  existence.  It  did  not  learn 
then,  though,  that  life  is  a  struggle  to  the 
last,  and  that  the  last  struggle  is  the  last 
of  life.  All  that  came  gradually.  Its  first 
fear  was  in  its  first  fortnight.  The  herd 
had  ranged  up  to  the  head  of  the  blind 
valley,  and  lay  in  a  tangled  windfall  under 
the  hill.  The  calf,  rising  to  turn  around 
in  the  little  hollow  it  had  worn  among  the 
leaves,  saw  something  lithe  and  bright 
sweep  like  a  shadow  from  one  fallen  trunk 
to  another.  Softly,  as  slowly  as  ever,  the 
lithe  creature  on  the  tree  trunk  crawled 
nearer,  its  eyes  glittering,  its  pads  velvety 
upon  the  bark.  Then  a  gust  of  wind  swung 
down  the  hill,  and  the  cow  lumbered  fran- 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        199 

tically  to  her  feet.  The  calf,  too,  smelled 
something,  and,  in  sudden  concern,  frisked 
back  to  its  mother's  side.  Simultaneously 
the  creature  on  the  windfall  leaped,  but 
missed  its  prey.  With  a  muffled  roar,  the 
cow  lunged  at  the  intruder,  who  fled  ab- 
ruptly, with  a  screech.  Then  the  calf 
learned  that  this  was  something  to  be 
feared  for  a  while,  a  great,  gray  Canada 
lynx,  —  a  coward  to  big  moose,  but  a  terror 
to  the  young.  With  its  nostrils  still  rank 
with  the  scent  of  the  marauder,  the  calf 
clung  trembling  to  its  mother's  side,  while 
they  clattered  away  from  this  perilous  place, 
seeking  rest  anew  in  the  black  cedar  swamp 
across  the  caribou  barren. 

After  this  encounter  the  calf's  nerves  were 
on  edge  for  a  week,  at  least  A  creaking 
tree  trunk  or  a  sudden  gust  among  the 
tops  set  its  heart  pattering  with  fierce, 
impulsive  beats.  But  timidity  is  the  first 
great  lesson  of  life  for  the  creature  of  the 
woodland,  where  eternal  vigilance  is  the  only 
hope  of  existence,  and  suspicion  the  only 


200  IN  THE  FOREST. 

reasonable  impulse.  With  this  terror  in  its 
breast,  it  learned  to  try  the  wind  at  every 
breath,  its  nostrils  wrinkling  tremulously  at 
each  unwonted  sound.  Its  mulelike  ears 
were  forever  whirling  about,  like  vanes 
upon  a  steeple,  eager  at  every  turn,  and  at 
the  least  false  note  in  the  droning  mono- 
tone of  the  forest  it  would  stiffen  into  rigid- 
ity, with  every  nerve  aquiver,  every  sense 
alert.  It  learned,  too,  that  when  a  moose 
lies  down  it  never  fails  to  make  a  loop  to 
leeward  on  the  back  track,  so  that  it  may 
be  warned  by  scent  of  any  enemy  hunting 
along  its  track. 

Another  adventure  taught  this  when  the 
cow,  one  time  at  evening-tide,  had  slipped 
down  the  bank  to  water  at  the  brook. 
The  calf,  lying  like  a  leveret  in  its  form, 
was  trying  all  the  lessons  it  had  learned  of 
artfulness  and  concealment,  when  a  crac- 
kling in  the  brush  set  every  sense  alert  in 
verity.  It  listened  acutely,  its  ears  fixed 
immobile.  Again  the  brush  crackled,  and 
something  wheezed,  Snoo-oof !  In  the  dusk, 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        201 

the  calf  saw  a  rolling,  black-haired  thing, 
rollicking  through  the  thicket,  rise  upright 
across  a  fallen  log.  Its  forearms  lolled  upon 
its  breast,  and  a  sharp,  thin  nose  stretched 
upward,  sniffing.  Behind  were  two  other 
bundles  of  fur,  small  and  fuzzy,  scampering 
along  with  ludicrous  imitation  of  every  ges- 
ture of  the  bigger  one.  It  seemed  amusing, 
—  very  amusing,  —  amusing  until  a  sudden 
shift  in  the  wind  brought  to  the  calf  a  rank 
and  evil  odour.  At  the  horrid,  terrifying 
scent  the  calf  crouched  lower;  it  would 
not  be  seen.  But  here  there  was  another 
thing  to  be  learned,  —  here  something  that 
was  trying  along  the  forest  with  a  sense  of 
scent  sharper  than  any  sight.  The  big, 
black  figure  of  fur  could  not  see  the  calf 
crouching  in  the  nest  of  leaves,  but  it 
could  smell.  Snoo-oo-oof!  The  first  slant 
of  wind  had  brought  the  scent  to  the  bear ; 
for  this  was  the  marauding  enemy  that  had 
fallen  upon  the  trail.  Snoo-ooo-oof !  The 
calf  heard.  The  bear  stood  as  rigid  as 
stone,  its  head  alone  moving  as  it  swept 


202  IN  THE  FOREST. 

to  and  fro,  searching  the  idle  air.  A  pause 
followed,  the  cubs  sitting  up  on  their  hams 
and  wondering  at  their  mother's  manner. 
Snoo-oof!  The  hair  on  her  neck  ruffled 
forward  and  her  eyes  gleamed.  It  seemed 
like  a  dream ;  was  the  creature  moving  ? 
Yes,  softly,  catlike,  step  by  step  forward,  a 
shadow  dark  and  menacing.  On  came  the 
bear,  —  nearer,  nearer.  The  calf  closed  its 
eyes  to  shut  out  the  horrid  sight. 

A  crash  —  a  thunder  of  feet !  The  brush 
crackled  with  a  heavy  tread;  there  was  a 
snort  of  fierce  angriness.  The  eyes  of  the 
calf  flew  open.  There  was  the  mother  cow 
charging  down  the  hill,  her  beady  orbs 
flashing  red,  her  mane  upright.  Her  rush 
carried  her  down  upon  the  cubs,  and  with 
one  dexter  stroke  she  trampled  down  the 
bigger  of  the  pair,  maiming  it  for  life. 
Roaring  in  turn,  the  she-bear,  with  open 
paw,  struck  a  swinging  sweep  at  the  cow's 
flank,  but  failed  to  stop  her  onslaught. 
She  rushed  the  hill  with  broadening  stride, 
and  butted  the  calf  to  its  feet.  Possessed 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        203 

of  every  terror,  the  little  moose  swung  into 
its  mother's  gait,  when  a  long  cry  sounded 
behind  them,  —  a  thin,  wailing  note.  It 
was  the  cub  in  agony.  Hooting  and 
whooping  like  a  thing  bereft,  the  she-bear 
whirled  in  her  tracks,  abandoning  the 
futile  chase,  while  the  cow  and  her  calf, 
splashing  across  the  shallow  dead  water, 
rejoined  the  herd,  and  swung  away  to  the 
northward  through  the  dark  forest  closes. 
With  the  rising  of  the  moon  they  had 
turned  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain  and 
were  footing  the  oozy  shallows  of  Mud 
Pond,  where  high  above  the  whispering 
trees  frowned  the  pinnacle,  gray  with  lunar 
light. 

With  all  these  perils,  timidity  became 
the  second  nature  of  the  calf,  fear  its  first 
instinct,  and  flight  a  ready  impulse.  It 
learned  to  skulk  and  crouch  like  an  over- 
harried  deer,  in  coverts  whose  colour  shaded 
into  the  hue  of  its  hide.  It  came  to  dis- 
tinguish sounds  and  their  meanings,  to 
school  itself  in  the  sense  and  scent  of 


204  W  THE  FOREST. 

woodland  ways,  to  fear  or  to  ignore  as  the 
circumstance  showed.  Meanwhile  it  grew. 
Man  then  came  into  the  wilderness. 
The  summer  was  well  under  way,  and  at 
evening-tide  the  cow  and  calf  stood  breast- 
deep  in  a  dead  water,  guzzling  the  tender 
grasses,  —  skimming  the  surface  with  dis- 
tended maws,  while  they  tore  away  great 
mouthfuls.  They  fed  with  the  eager  move- 
ment of  wild  fowl,  drawing  in  their  necks 
and  then  distending  them  at  full  length, 
their  flaccid  lips  fingering  the  vegetation. 
Their  mouths  made  a  busy,  clucking  sound 
while  they  ate,  and  sometimes  they  plunged 
their  heads  to  the  muddy  bottom  and 
wrenched  the  grasses  by  the  roots.  Be- 
yond them  stood  the  bull  upon  the  bog, 
wagging  his  ears  in  a  cloud  of  pestering 
flies,  but  otherwise  soberly  content.  The 
last  year's  calf  was  there,  too,  up  to  his 
back  in  the  water,  and  only  his  hump  and 
head  showing.  He  had  finished  feeding, 
and  was  laving  his  flanks  in  the  tepid 
swamp  water.  With  dreamy  eyes  the  little 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE    TRAIL.        205 

one  looked  about,  and  there  out  in  the 
pond  was  something  loglike  floating  softly 
along.  Curiously  the  calf  gave  it  a  second 
glance.  It  did  not  seem  like  driftwood; 
there  was  neither  wind  nor  current  to  set 
it  along,  yet  it  moved,  gliding  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  moose  family  faring  at  the 
mouth  of  the  bogan.  The  calf  turned 
around;  the  bull  saw  too.  He  muttered 
once,  and  in  fixed  rigidity  stared  across  the 
pond.  But,  like  all  moose,  the  bull,  despite 
his  sagacity,  lacked  the  power  of  distin- 
guishing form.  Movement  he  could  dis- 
cern at  a  glance;  a  muskrat  or  a  mink 
skittering  across  the  pond  would  have 
caught  his  attention.  But  his  mortal  en- 
emy, man,  might  have  sat  on  a  log  ten 
yards  away  and  passed  unnoticed,  were  the 
wind  wrong  and  the  man  unmoving.  How- 
ever, there  was  something  familiarly  evil 
in  this  floating  bulk  out  there  upon  the 
pond.  He  had  seen  such  before,  far  down 
the  little  Sou'west  Miramichi,  when  a  flash 
of  flame  streamed  from  a  log  like  this,  and 


206  IN  THE  FOREST. 

something  wheening  through  the  air  bit 
him  deeply  upon  the  shoulder.  In  mem- 
ory, too,  his  ears  dinned,  as  if  he  still  heard 
the  crash  of  thunder  that  followed  the 
spurt  of  flame.  Niff-ff !  The  bull  drew 
in  a  deep  breath,  his  nose  ranging  upward 
slowly,  like  a  halter-bound  horse.  They 
were  all  standing  stiffly  now,  peering  at  the 
yellow  tree-thing  out  there  in  the  water. 
It  did  not  move ;  there  was  no  sound ;  and 
they  felt  their  confidence  return. 

Across  the  pond  a  rising  gust  flickered 
the  leafy  treetops.  The  flaw  came  on, 
blurring  the  glassy  surface  and  stirring 
the  sedges  on  the  shallows.  It  sped  mur- 
muring on  its  way,  a  momentary  visitor, 
and  wheeled  southward  over  the  moun- 
tain's flank.  Plunging  about  in  his  tracks, 
the  big  bull  pounded  across  the  bog,  the 
water  flying  in  his  trail ;  with  crash  after 
crash,  he  sought  the  forest  cover.  At  his 
heels  shacked  the  last  year's  calf,  crazy 
with  fright,  while  the  cow,  in  a  sudden 
flurry,  ploughed  up  the  bank,  driving  her 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        207 

own  before  her.  Scent  told  its  story. 
Mindful  of  its  lessons,  the  calf  nosed  the 
passing  gust,  and  sniffed  in  that  harbinger 
of  evil,  —  a  subtle,  terrifying  taint,  noways 
like  the  scent  of  the  marauding  bear  and 
lucifee.  The  cow's  terror  inspired  the  calf 
to  haste,  but  as  it  followed  the  flight  it 
took  opportunity  to  read  with  its  nose,  for 
future  reference,  the  telltale  warning  in  the 
wind.  Thus  they  flew  across  the  bog  at 
energetic  speed,  and,  trampling  through 
the  fringe  of  high-water  drift,  dived  into 
the  forest  blackness  as  a  rabbit  skips  into 
a  warren. 

This  was  the  first  meeting  with  man. 
Fraught  with  vague  terrors,  the  calf 
breasted  through  the  brush  in  the  wake 
of  the  cow,  leaping  the  windfalls  with  a 
snorting  breath  and  the  clatter  of  swift- 
pounding  hoofs.  Through  the  swamp  they 
plunged,  routing  out  a  herd  of  woodland 
caribou,  who  fled  before,  their  round,  broad 
hoofs  clacking  like  castanets,  and  the  din 
lending  desperation  to  the  calf's  endeavour. 


2o8  IN  THE  FOREST. 

It  had  seen  and  scented  man,  and  terror  and 
frenzy  fixed  the  memory  in  its  mind  forever. 
Autumn  found  the  moose  family  ranging 
on  the  long  ridge  at  the  north  of  Nictau. 
The  calf,  lusty  with  gathering  strength, 
forgot  a  few  of  its  fears.  It  was  alone  with 
its  mother;  for  between  Nictau  and  the 
Mamoziekel  the  cow  had  lost  the  big  bull 
and  the  last  year's  calf,  and  it  was  not 
sorry.  With  the  first  touch  of  September 
rutting  wrath  the  bull  had  grown  rough. 
His  horns,  hardened  and  strung  with 
ragged  strings  of  velvet,  seemed  menac- 
ing; and  besides,  he  had  a  way  of  shoul- 
dering the  others  in  a  manner  annoying. 
Once  he  charged  the  calf,  who  sought 
refuge  in  a  bunch  of  birch  poles,  where 
the  big  bull,  with  his  wide-spreading  ant- 
lers, could  not  follow.  Grunting  savagely, 
the  bull  turned  on  the  last  year's  calf, 
and,  roaring,  drove  the  youngster  over  the 
crown  of  the  hill.  The  last  year's  calf 
had  been  swaggering  about  before  this  in 
the  proud  consciousness  of  a  pair  of  stubs. 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        209 

He  had  tried  them  once  upon  the  calf, 
after  an  evening  spent  in  brushing  them 
up  against  an  alder  pole,  when  the  calf 
squealed  in  pain.  These  spikes  were  less 
than  a  span  long,  and  were  not  handsome ; 
but  the  last  year's  calf  thought  them 
mighty  weapons.  So  when  the  big  bull 
chased  the  roistering  braggart  down  the 
ridge,  the  calf  was  sincerely  glad.  It 
hearkened  while  the  pursuit  clattered  down 
among  the  hard  wood,  the  last  year's  calf 
squealing  in  terror,  and  at  this  juncture 
the  cow  turned  and  made  off  in  the  oppo- 
site direction.  The  calf  had  no  alternative 
but  to  follow.  Deserting  the  others,  they 
rounded  the  mountain  again,  and  once  more 
returned  to  the  thick  swamp  at  the  head 
of  Mud  Pond  and  the  Bathurst  Carry. 
Here  they  made  their  stay,  clinging  to  the 
cover  during  daylight,  and  stealing  down 
to  the  shore  of  the  pond  only  when  dark- 
ness drew  its  mantle  over  the  woods. 

Here  they  were  standing  one  night  when 
the  calf  heard  from  the  other  shore  a  long- 


2io.  IN  THE  FOREST. 

drawn  note  go  droning  over  the  moonlit 
water.  It  was  simple  and  low,  ending 
abruptly  in  a  plaintive  guttural.  The  cow 
and  the  calf  cocked  their  ears,  listening,  while 
the  faint  echo  spoke  from  hill  to  hill.  Then 
silence  fell  anew  on  the  forest,  and  the  cow 
went  on  feeding.  A  half-hour  passed.  The 
same  moaning  intonation  droned  again,  now 
louder  and  more  appealing.  The  calf  lifted 
its.  head,  looking  eagerly  at  the  cow,  and 
wondering  why  she  did  not  move  away  from 
this  vexatious  sound.  But  the  cow  knew  the 
meaning  of  the  disturber :  it  was  only  another 
cow  calling,  and  what  heed  should  she  give 
to  this  intruder's  untoward  plaint?  She 
sniffed  as  if  in  disdain,  and  resumed  her 
feeding ;  and  the  calf,  convinced  that  this  was 
not  a  source  of  peril,  was  guzzling  at  the 
grasses  once  more,  when  still  another  note 
struck  a  discord  upon  the  silent  night.  Unh  I 
The  calf  had  heard  that  sound !  It  had  not 
heard  the  love  call  of  a  cow  moose  before, 
but  it  remembered  how  the  big  bull  had 
grunted  when  he  chased  the  last  year's  calf. 


AT  THE  END   OF  THE   TRAIL.       211 

Unh-oonh  !  Was  it  the  big  bull  still  hector- 
ing the  arrogant  stripling  ?  The  calf  listened. 
The  bull,  whoever  he  was,  swung  over  the 
crest  of  the  ridge,  stirring  the  night  with  the 
clanging  of  his  horns  upon  the  hard  wood, 
and  at  every  other  stride  grunting,  Unh-unh- 
oonh  ! 

E-ee-eee-u-uu-o-ooo-eunh !  It  was  a  cow's 
answering  call,  soft  and  muffled,  —  a  dulcet 
murmur  of  invitation.  On  the  ridge  there 
was  silence  for  an  instant;  then  Unh-unh- 
unhl  —  the  bull  was  coming  on.  He  was 
eager,  —  too  eager  for  safety.  He  plunged 
down  into  the  pond,  —  slosh,  slosh,  slosh, — 
grunted  once,  and  was  silent. 

A  rippling  detonation  crashed  upon  the 
stillness.  The  roar  rattled  against  the  moun- 
tain side,  and  beat  back  with  staccato  echoes 
pealing  heavenward  in  a  chaos  of  sound.  A 
second  followed;  then  night  became  abomi- 
nable with  the  rattling,  crashing  reports. 
Dimly  the  calf  heard  between  the  shots  a 
heavy  splashing  on  the  shallow  shore,  a  turmoil 
of  pealing  echoes,  and  a  cry,  "  He's  down  !  " 


212  IN  THE  FOREST. 

The  cow  and  the  calf  fled  from  what  they 
knew  was  a  horror  — for  them.  But  it  was 
a  triumph  for  the  men  beyond  on  the  pond. 
The  big  bull  had  been  sacrificed  to  his  pride 
of  conquest.  He  had  been  tolled  in  to  die  in 
the  pursuit  of  a  graceless,  grotesque  imitation. 
His  last  liturgy  had  been  his  own  masterful, 
deep-lunged  answer  to  the  hollow  cheat  of 
the  birch-bark  horn.  He  lay  on  his  side  now 
in  the  mud,  one  broad-palmed  antler  jutting 
from  the  water  that  was  red  from  the  slaugh- 
ter. For  the  first  time  the  calf  had  been  in 
the  presence  of  death. 

They  abandoned  the  precarious  place, 
ranging  leagues  northward  into  the  untold 
fastnesses  of  the  Upsalquitch.  Here  they 
found  refuge  again,  clinging  to  this  drear, 
unlovely  solitude ;  the  cow,  lorn  in  her  lone- 
someness,  making  sorrowful  the  darkness 
with  her  call.  At  the  waning  of  the  moon 
she  was  solaced,  for  across  the  night  came 
the  bark  of  an  unmated  bull  hastening  to  the 
courtship.  She  answered ;  the  bull  drew 
nearer.  At  length  he  stood  in  a  thicket 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.       213 

across  the  bogan,  and  beat  the  bushes  with 
his  horns,  striving  to  draw  the  cow  to  him. 
He  was  taking  no  chances;  but  when  the 
calf  squealed  for  the  cow  to  return,  the  bull 
knew  this  was  no  cheat,  and  came  rioting 
across  the  bogan,  bristling  and  bold  with 
ardour.  The  calf  hung  about,  complaining, 
but  the  others  gave  no  heed,  and  for  once  in 
its  life  the  heir  was  left  to  its  own  devices. 
Then,  when  the  dawn  came,  all  three  slunk 
into  a  thicket,  the  calf  forlorn  and  drear. 

It  was  growing  cold,  —  bitter  cold.  The 
bull,  the  cow,  and  the  calf  wandered  south- 
ward, homeward  once  more  to  the  mountain. 
Between  Nictau  and  the  Mamoziekel  was  a 
long  hardwood  ridge,  where  they  would  yard 
for  the  winter.  The  bull's  interest  in  possi- 
ble rivals  soon  ceased.  He  was  no  longer 
the  eager,  braggart  bully  of  the  rut,  but  once 
more  a  suspicious,  slinking  creature,  shy  and 
timorous.  With  the  first  of  the  snow  they 
shortened  the  range,  and  settled  down  in 
preparation  for  the  long  winter  siege.  At  the 
base  of  the  hill  was  a  brook,  and  over  the  crest 


214  IN  THE  FOREST. 

a  hollow  pocket  sheltered  from  the  wind. 
Thickets  stood  on  every  side,  and  the  browse 
was  rich  and  limitless.  With  all  this  food 
and  water  comfort  seemed  assured. 

Into  this  haven  wandered,  one  day,  another 
moose.  He  was  battered  and  lean ;  one  ear 
was  slit  almost  to  the  butt,  and  a  long,  fresh 
scar  lay  on  his  flank  like  a  burn,  —  the  marks 
of  encounters  with  other  bulls.  With  a  sud- 
den concern,  the  calf  saw  that  the  frayed 
newcomer  was  its  early  enemy,  the  last 
year's  calf.  But  there  was  no  more  insolence 
or  oppression  remaining.  He  was  content 
to  take  a  peaceful  place  with  the  herd,  and  to 
feed  about,  insignificant  and  almost  unnoticed. 

Softly  fell  the  snow,  day  after  day.  It 
sifted  through  the  trees  silently  as  the  falling 
of  a  star,  clogging  the  brush  with  its  heavy 
mantle.  Erelong  the  herd's  excursions  were 
cut  down  to  passage  along  the  ridge  upon 
which  they  ranged.  In  their  prospecting  for 
feed  the  moose  trod  great  paths  to  and  fro, 
breaking  out  fresh  lanes  through  the  heavy 
banks  as  the  browse  became  exhausted.  Ice 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        215 

and  snow  had  transformed  them  before  De- 
cember ended.  The  bull's  horns  were  caked 
with  frozen  slush ;  his  mane  was  a  tinkling 
fringe  of  icicles.  Their  hair,  too,  was  heavy 
and  often  blurred  with  dirt,  and  they  walked 
laggardly  and  with  hanging  heads.  Their 
struggle  against  wind  and  weather  had  begun. 

Over  the  crest  of  the  hill  came  a  crouch- 
ing figure, —  a  man.  He  was  peering  here 
and  there  eagerly,  crawling  onward  a  step  at 
a  time.  His  eyes  were  sharp  and  keen ;  his 
swart  Indian  features  were  drawn  with  the 
striving  passion  of  the  chase.  On  the  soft 
going  his  snowshoes  made  no  sound,  and  as 
silently  the  twigs  parted  across  the  smooth 
fabric  of  his  mackinaw  as  he  shouldered  a 
way  through  the  brush. 

Something  moved  the  cow  to  suspicion. 
She  rose  heavily  and  whirled  about,  staring 
at  the  figure  on  the  hill.  The  Milicete's 
head  rested  on  his  arm,  and  a  brief  pause  in- 
tervened. Then  the  woods  dinned  with  the 
rifle's  roar,  and  the  cow  plunged  forward  on 
her  knees.  Leaping  to  their  feet,  the  other 


216  IN  THE  FOREST. 

moose  halted,  snorting.  A  second  shot 
added  its  clamour  to  the  reverberating  echoes, 
and,  wheeling  in  their  tracks,  they  hurled  on- 
ward down  the  hill,  the  brush  cracking  and 
crashing  in  their  wake.  Again  the  rifle 
cracked,  and  the  calf  lunged  forward.  It  felt 
the  lead  rip  like  fire  along  its  flank,  and, 
spurred  to  mad  desperation,  it  pushed  ahead, 
the  crack-crack  of  the  gun  following  as  it  fled. 
Then  it  plunged  over  the  dip  of  the  hollow 
among  the  hills,  and  silence  once  more  fell 
in  its  train.  It  was  alone;  for,  far  behind, 
the  cow  lay  on  her  side,  her  head  resting 
across  the  round  of  a  fallen  tree,  the  snow 
red  and  dreadful  about  her.  Eastward  went 
the  calf,  and  then,  miles  beyond,  unable  to 
stagger  farther,  it  rounded  to  on  the  ridge 
overlooking  the  second  and  third  Bathurst 
lakes.  Convinced  now  that  its  safety  lay  in 
solitude,  it  drew  away  from  the  other  moose, 
and,  worn  and  lonely,  yarded  the  remainder 
of  the  winter,  orphaned  and  dull. 

Spring  came,  freeing   it  from   the  prison 
of   snow.     Remembering  the   quiet   of  the 


AT  THE   END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        217 

Upsalquitch,  it  wandered  northward,  and,  un- 
molested in  this  desert  of  swamp  and  bogland, 
grew  lustily.  By  the  end  of  the  summer  it 
had  become  as  sly  and  crafty  as  any  creature 
in  the  wilderness ;  also,  it  was  growing  a  pair 
of  stubs  on  its  forehead,  and  dignity  was  in 
its  ways.  As  the  fall  came,  with  a  brush  of 
reds  and  browns  for  the  trees,  a  new,  whim- 
sical humour  seized  it.  In  its  heart  was  a 
longing  to  wander,  to  return  once  more  to 
the  mountain  in  the  south,  to  see  what  things 
were  happening  on  the  range,  and  above  all 
to  seek  the  society  of  a  mate.  Leaving  the 
Upsalquitch,  it  rambled  on  its  way ;  pausing 
at  times  to  paw  up  potholes  in  a  swamp,  or 
to  beat  its  stubs  upon  an  alder  bush,  as  the 
big  bulls  did. 

Ranging  to  the  shore  of  Mud  Pond,  the 
yearling  sloshed  across  the  shallows,  tread- 
ing the  soft  ooze  and  spattering  mud  head- 
high  while  he  pushed  his  way  through  the 
tangled  bush  upon  the  shore.  There  in  the 
thicket  he  paused,  listening  to  the  soft  voices 
of  the  night.  His  heart  was  filled  with  ardour, 


218  IN  THE  FOREST. 

and  the  lust  of  battle  surged  dimly  in  his 
mind.  He  longed  to  prove  himself  among 

the  other  bulls,  but  discretion  warned.     Yet 

v 

once,  to  try  himself,  he  grunted  the  guttural 
challenge  of  the  mating  bull,  and  the  answer 
was  electrical.  E-ee-eunhl  H,e  heard  the 
soft  and  wooing  response,  —  E-ee-eunh  /  His 
mane  bristled,  and  the  hair  on  his  neck 
puffed  outward.  After  a  moment's  pause 
he  grunted  anew,  —  Unh-uoonh !  Many 
minutes  passed,  while  silence  fell  again  upon 
the  wilderness.  Then  again,  E-ee-eunhl  — 
a  short,  muffled  call.  Unh!  UNH !  the 
yearling  grunted,  —  Unh  /  oonh  /  Like  a 
whirlwind  he  roared  out  of  the  thicket,  a 
deep  guttural  punctuating  every  stride.  At 
full  speed  he  drove  across  the  mud  bank, 
smearing  himself  to  the  flanks,  and  with  his 
hair  bristling,  his  eyes  red  and  snapping,  he 
swung  about  the  point,  and  snorting  hunched 
himself  to  a  standstill. 

There,  almost  under  his  nose,  was  a  canoe, 
clearly  revealed  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  air 
was  strong  with  the  scent  of  man  —  man,  his 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE    TRAIL         219 

mortal,  terrifying  enemy.  Too  frightened  to 
flee,  he  stood  there  staring  down  on  the  birch 
bark,  and  softly  and  silently  it  moved.  Pal- 
sied, he  beheld  it  drawing  near,  yet  flight  was 
forgotten.  Nearer  and  nearer  it  came ;  then 
che  bowman  dropped  his  elbows,  and  at  this 
gesture  the  moonlight  glinted  on  a  gun  barrel. 

"  It's  a  calf ! "  said  a  voice,  disgustedly. 

At  this  the  canoe  swung  abruptly  around, 
but  still  the  calf  stood  there  in  stupid  aston- 
ishment. 

"Sartin  fool  moose  —  hunh!"  spoke  an- 
other voice,  unmistakably  Milicete. 

A  setting  pole  hurled  through  the  air,  end 
on  like  a  spear,  its  blunt  end  banging  the 
calf  in  the  ribs.  A  sudden  bellow  of  terror 
burst  from  him,  and,  leaping  like  a  lucifee, 
he  sought  the  bank  and  sped  away,  sweat- 
ing in  an  agony  of  fear.  That  ended  his 
romancing  for  a  time,  but  still  the  season 
had  another  lesson  in  store  for  him.  The 
encounter  on  the  pond  taught  him  then  and 
there  that  circumspection  and  craft  are 
needed  even  in  matters  of  love ;  but  it  did 


220  IN  THE  FOREST. 

not  teach  him  that  age  and  weight  count 
much  in  a  tilt  at  arms.  He  had  ranged  over 
to  the  dead  water  north  of  the  Mamoziekel, 
when  he  came  face  to  face  with  the  slit-eared 
bull,  his  old  acquaintance. 

Oonh!  said  the  slit-eared  bull. 

Unh  /   challenged  the  yearling. 

They  came  together  with  a  crash  of  flying 
deadwood,  the  yearling  forced  back  on  his 
haunches.  He  struggled  to  his  feet,  and 
resumed  the  charge  gamely.  But  by  a  sud- 
den turn  the  spike-horn  bull  caught  him  on 
the  hip,  pierced  him  almost  to  the  vitals, 
and  then,  pressing  the  onslaught,  drove  the 
yearling,  baffled  and  bellowing,  down  the 
closed  reaches  of  the  cedar  swamp,  and 
away  to  safety  over  a  near-by  hill.  That 
finished  the  yearling  for  the  season ;  but  he 
laid  by,  for  future  reckoning,  a  memory  of 
this  shameless,  unmerciful  beating.  Fate 
destined  that  he  must  wait.  The  year 
passed,  and  a  second  season  found  him 
glorying  in  the  company  of  a  mate,  a  sleek, 
velvet-sided  cow,  who  had  never  walked 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        221 

abroad  before  in  the  glamour  of  a  honey- 
moon. Jealously  he  guarded  her  from  the 
attentions  of  another  stripling  who  was  ply- 
ing about  the  premises.  There  on  the  cari- 
bou barren  he  had  beaten  him  off  in  a  battle 
royal,  and,  scarred  and  bleeding,  but  withal 
triumphant,  he  returned  to  find  his  old 
enemy,  the  slit-eared  bull,  in  charge.  For 
an  hour  they  fought  and  trampled  upon 
the  oozy  battleground,  until  once  more  the 
younger  bull  was  an  outcast  and  a  wanderer; 
and,  beaten,  disgraced,  and  without  heart,  he 
slouched  away  to  his  old  retreat  between 
Nictau  and  the  Upsalquitch. 

The  years  had  passed,  —  six,  eight,  ten, 
perhaps.  Plenty  snows,  mebbe,  as  Tom 
Bear,  the  Milicete,  said.  Somewhere  be- 
tween the  Sisson  Branch  and  the  head  of 
the  Little  Tobique  the  bull  was  wandering, 
black,  bulky,  and  heavy-humped.  He  was 
a  colossus  now ;  no  longer  like  the  weakling 
that  had  come  into  life  in  the  blind  valley 
on  the  mountain's  flank.  His  horns,  broadly 


222  .IN  THE  FOREST. 

palmed  and  fixed  with  a  fringe  of  bayonet 
prongs,  were  the  terror  and  envy  of  the 
herds.  He  had  run  a  long  course,  and  in 
the  burnt  ground  below  the  Wabsky  and 
the  Odell,  he  was  a  monarch  absolute,  his 
crest  scarred  with  the  wounds  of  a  violent 
sway.  Time  had  taught  him  nearly  all  that 
a  moose  can  know.  He  could  discern  the 
cheat  of  a  birch  bark  horn  almost  as  far  as 
he  could  hear  it;  he  had  been  tracked, 
hunted,  and  fired  at,  until  the  crack  of  a 
rifle  was  almost  as  familiar  as  the  crash  of 
a  tree  falling  in  the  woodlands.  Yet  he 
still  lived,  mammoth  and  noble. 

"Oh,  so  big  —  hunh!"  exclaimed  Tom 
Bear,  the  Milicete,  stretching  both  arms  to 
match  a  spread  of  horns.  Tom  was  in  diffi- 
culties. He  was  in  jail  at  Andover,  and  with 
no  vision  of  relief  before  him.  But  there  had 
come  a  man  from  the  lower  settlements,  look- 
ing for  moose,  and  had  sought  Bear  in  his 
enforced  retreat. 

"Yeh  —  umph!     They  got  a  wickhagan^ 

1  Milicete  for  "  trap." 


"He  was  a  colossus  now   ...   his  horns,  broadly  palmed  and  fixed  with 
a  fringe  of  bayonet  prongs,  were  the  terror  and  envy  of  the  herds." 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        223 

on  Tom.     Ain't  so  bad  be  in  lockup.     Only 
debt,  this  time." 

"  Only  for  debt,  eh  ?  How  much  ?  " 
It  was  not  a  great  amount,  and  the  man 
from  the  settlements  freed  Tom  Bear  by  a 
payment.  Then  they  journeyed  north,  the 
Tobique  in  their  wake,  and  the  Sisson  Branch 
before  them.  And  about  this  time,  perhaps, 
far  up  at  the  head  of  the  brook  where  the 
flying  caribou  traffic  among  the  barrens,  a 
mighty  contest  was  waging  on  the  forest  edge. 
Once  more  the  bull  confronted  his  slit- 
eared  rival.  The  other's  strength  and  re- 
sources had  grown  too.  His  horns  matched 
almost,  in  their  bigness,  the  bull's  broad 
spread,  and  he  was  big,  too,  in  bulk  and 
limb.  Oonh!  Unh!  he  grunted.  His  cow, 
lying  hidden  in  a  thicket,  revealed  herself, 
walking  with  a  slow,  stretching  stride  out 
into  the  open  barren.  The  bulls'  crests 
hung  low  before  their  swollen  necks  and 
manes  bristling  with  eager  rage.  The  cow 
coaxed  urgently,  as  if  gleeful  of  the  coming 
encounter  for  her  sake.  She  plied  back  and 


224  IN  THE  FOREST. 

forth  along  the  prospective  battleground, 
watching,  waiting;  then  the  champions 
swung  together  with  a  crash. 

The  night  clattered  with  the  sound.  The 
bulls'  antlers  clanged  like  meeting  metal. 
Their  palms  gritted  as  they  strove  and 
struggled,  grunting,  gasping,  fire  in  their 
eyes.  Unh-unh!  They  locked  their  horns 
anew,  their  shaggy  heads  shaking,  and  the 
froth  flying  with  the  strokes.  The  moon 
arose,  staring  down  upon  their  baresark 
frenzy,  while  they  drove  their  hoofs  into  the 
soggy  soil;  and  each  time  they  shocked 
together  the  solemn  reaches  of  the  wilder- 
ness clanged  with  the  tumult.  Standing  at 
a  distance,  the  cow  whimpered  and  whined 
and  drooled  across  the  open  ground  with 
moaning  intonation.  At  the  call  the  two 
fought  with  further  maddened  energy;  and 
at  last,  inch  by  inch,  the  slit-eared  rival 
began  to  give  way.  His  head  was  matted 
with  blood  and  froth,  his  eye  was  dim  and 
evil.  At  the  first  sign  of  conquest  the  com- 
ing victor  plied  himself  afresh  to  conquer. 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        225 

He  lunged  back  suddenly,  and  again,  sweep- 
ing forward,  his  hocks  straining  for  the  im- 
pulse, launched  himself  upon  his  foe.  Clang ! 
clang !  Their  antlers  struck  together,  wres- 
tling. The  slit-eared  bull  fell  back.  He 
tried  to  turn  and  fly,  but  the  victor  unmerci- 
fully pressed  him  down.  They  wrestled 
then  anew,  their  antlers  grappling  like  arms, 
when,  with  a  sudden,  swift  onslaught,  the 
slit-eared  bull  was  hurled  backward,  van- 
quished and  half  dead.  With  his  last  re- 
maining strength  he  fled  to  cover,  the  victor's 
prongs  thudding  a  quickstep  on  his  ribs 
and  thighs,  while  the  cow,  calling  low  and 
clearly,  bade  the  victor  return  to  her  charms. 
Thus,  in  the  rising  dawn,  old  scores  were 
wiped  out,  and  a  memory  of  disgraced 
defeat  lived  down. 

Across  the  bog,  at  noon,  came  Tom 
Bear  and  the  man  from  the  settlements. 

"  Uh !  "  exclaimed  Tom  Bear,  clutching 
him  by  the  elbow.  "  So  —  see  !  " 

The  ground  in  a  dozen  different  ways 
was  torn  and  trodden,  and  hoof  beats  marked 


226  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  acres.  The  Milicete  ranged  to  and 
fro  like  a  working  hound,  marking  a  fleck 
of  blood  or  a  patch  of  hair  upon  the  wasted 
moss.  He  saw  the  battle  in  these  signs, 
and  pointed  at  last  where  the  beaten  bull 
had  fled  to  cover  for  his  life.  Then,  rang- 
ing wider,  he  found  the  slots  of  the  victor 
and  the  cow,  moving  northward  across  the 
barren  to  the  heavy  covert  where  the  caribou 
had  beaten  an  open  trail.  Swiftly  and  soft- 
footed  he  followed,  and  at  the  edge  of  the 
open  hard  wood  halted,  and  raised  a  warning 
finger. 

"So  —  big  moose  —  big  fellow.  Call 
him  out,  mebbe.  Think  same  one  —  yes, 
mus'  be  big  fellow  —  so  big."  He  spread 
his  arms  again,  his  dark  features  lighting 
with  elation  and  the  lust  to  kill.  "  Call  him 
out  to-night,  mebbe — dunno.  Try  all  same." 

Every  instinct  of  the  Milicete  was  aroused 
in  his  awakened  craft.  He  pitched  his  pack 
into  a  windfall,  and  strode  off,  catlike,  into 
the  forest.  Presently  he  was  back  again, 
satisfied  that  the  bull  was  resting,  not  far 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        227 

away,  from  the  rigour  of  the  conquest.  He 
drew  out  his  bark  horn,  and  shaped  and 
trimmed  it  anew,  a  lurking  smile  on  his 
dark  visage,  yet,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  out- 
burst of  excitement,  more  taciturn  than  ever. 
He  watched  the  sun  sweep  across  the  ze- 
nith, and  at  last,  when  it  was  setting  behind 
a  dusky  fringe  of  brush  upon  a  distant  hill, 
the  two  crawled  out  upon  the  bog,  and 
sought  concealment  in  a  bushy  island  at 
the  centre.  There  the  first  sorrowing  of  the 
moose  call  spread  its  tremolo  across  the  for- 
est passes,  whining  away  into  the  distance 
in  low  appeal.  The  hills  gave  back  the  call ; 
then  silence  followed,  while  the  dusky  shad- 
ows trooped  across  the  solitude.  So  rose 
the  moon,  her  pale  light  transforming  the 
woodland  aisles,  now  ghostly  dim  and  super- 
naturally  quiet. 

The  echo  of  the  horn  beckoned  from 
ridge  and  summit,  at  last  tapering  away 
into  a  perspective  of  hollow  sound.  Then 
silence  fell.  Somewhere  in  the  distance 
a  night  bird  cried,  its  booming  note  trying 


228  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  straining  silence  anew,  while  the  dead 
air  lay  soundless  among  the  sleeping  trees. 
Once  more  the  Indian  called,  the  birch-bark 
horn  persuasively  ringing  the  sonorous  ca- 
dence of  a  calling  cow,  —  E-ee-ee-uu-ooo~uuu- 
o-unh  !  Their  ears  roared  in  the  stillness  as 
they  strained  to  catch  the  faintest  sound. 
Minutes  passed ;  they  called  again,  and  then 
out  of  the  distance  came  the  answer,  —  Unh  I 
Unh  !  Oonh  ! 

"Zut!  Listen!"  The  Milicete  bent 
his  ear  to  the  earth,  his  nostrils  quiver- 
ing. "Moose  comin'  now — big  bull  — 
huh  —  listen  !  " 

Far  distant  was  the  sound,  —  sharp,  ab- 
rupt. It  was  half  the  stroke  of  an  axe,  half 
the  bark  of  a  dog.  They  heard  it  draw 
nearer ;  now  a  deep  guttural,  emphatic  with 
passionate  rage.  It  swung  across  the  edge 
of  the  barren,  drawing  nearer,  while  the  Mili- 
cete's  tense  respiration  roared  like  steam 
from  a  vent. 

"  Big  moose  —  mus'  be  careful  Let  him 
come  'long  slow !  " 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE    TRAIL.        229 

Over  the  night  floated  a  low,  imploring 
call.  The  Indian  held  up  a  warning  finger. 
"Cow  try  call  him  back  —  huh!"  He  put 
the  birch  bark  to  his  lips,  and,  with  the 
horn  close  to  the  ground,  moaned  softly,  — 
E-euh!  A  crash  in  the  brush  answered, 
and  again  the  real  cow  complained  to  the 
deserting  bull.  Strong  in  the  faith  of  his 
recent  conquest,  he  plunged  on  through  the 
brush,  beating  his  antlers  upon  the  trees 
and  grunting  harshly.  But  his  craftiness 
and  learning  did  not  forsake  him  in  this 
venture.  He  strayed  only  to  the  edge  of 
the  bog,  and  there  stood,  grunting  and 
threshing  in  the  thicket,  eager  but  suspicious. 
In  vain  the  Milicete  coaxed  and  besought, 
the  forest  sorrowful  with  the  horn's  plead- 
ing ;  the  bull  clung  to  cover,  and  would  not 
show  himself.  Even  the  squealing  bawl  of 
a  calf  moose  failed  to  stir  him. 

"  Mebbe  him  mad  yet,"  muttered  Tom 
Bear.  "  Try  him  wit'  fight." 

Rasping  the  horn  among  the  bushes, 
beating  and  striking  at  the  bushes  with 


230  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  bark,  he  simulated  the  noise  of  a  bull 
threshing  his  antlers  in  a  fury.  Unh!  Unhl 
he  called ;  then  Ooonh !  It  was  the  last 
stroke  of  cunning.  Ploughing  through  the 
covert,  the  bull  dashed  out  on  the  open,  his 
fury  awesome,  his  mane  and  the  hair  upon 
his  neck  bristling  with  his  spleen.  He 
charged  the  bushy  island,  grunting  at  every 
stride,  a  figure  of  terrifying  rage. 

Crack!  pealed  a  rifle-shot,  its  splitting 
stroke  clattering  thunderously.  Crack! 
again  it  sounded.  Wheeling  in  his  tracks,  his 
frenzy  spent  in  sudden  fear,  the  bull  sought 
safety  in  flight  as  speedy  as  his  charge. 
"'Shoot!'"  cried  the  Milicete,  his  voice  pitch- 
ing across  the  babel  of  echoes  following  in 
the  train  of  the  rifle-shot.  "  Shoot !  "  Again 
the  world  reverberated  with  the  shattering 
explosion,  but  the  bull  kept  on,  unchecked. 
With  a  crash  of  breaking  wood,  an  uproar 
of  cries,  of  treading  hoofs,  he  was  gone,  con- 
vulsed with  terror,  yet  once  more  unharmed. 

"  Hunh ! "  the  Indian  muttered,  "  big 
moose — so  big!  " 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        231 

His  contempt  was  obvious.  He  turned 
his  back  upon  the  shuddering  sportsman, 
and,  drawing  a  blanket  from  his  pack,  rolled 
himself  in  the  folds  and  ungraciously 
sought  sleep.  Meanwhile,  across  the  forest, 
driving  his  way  before  him,  and  with  the 
timorous  cow  clattering  at  his  heels,  the 
bull  once  more  turned  his  way  northward, 
seeking  safety  from  man  in  the  untracked 
depths  at  the  north  of  the  Tobique. 

"  Moose  gone ;  Injun  go  home  now,"  said 
Tom  Bear  at  dawn.  He  ignored  the  other's 
protests,  and  sullenly  set  along  the  back  trail 
for  home.  Two  days  later  another  wickhagan 
sprung  on  Tom  Bear;  for  he  was  taken  up 
in  the  road  at  Andover,  too  drunk  to  stag- 
ger, yet  muttering  and  murmuring  under  his 
breath,  "Huh  —  so  big  moose  —  damn!" 

Northward,  ever  northward,  worked  the 
big  bull.  He  swept  across  the  bogs  and 
barrens  of  the  Sisson  Branch,  swinging  a 
little  eastward  to  round  the  edge  of  Nictau. 
But  one  glimpse  through  the  trees  of  Bald 
Mountain  looming  large  upon  his  path  drew 


232  IN  THE  FOREST. 

his  heart  away  from  flight.  He  turned,  and, 
crossing  the  head  of  Mud  Carry,  ranged 
southward  anew,  but  along  the  eastern  flank 
of  the  peak.  There,  between  Bathurst  and 
the  Mamoziekel,  he  halted,  and  once  more, 
after  a  week's  passage,  was  unrestrained  of 
fear.  So,  until  the  coming  of  the  first  snow, 
he  plied  his  way  along  the  ridges,  a  master 
of  the  range,  jealous  of  his  solitude,  and 
ready  to  try  the  issue  with  any  other  bull. 

In  his  jail  retreat,  Tom  Bear's  memory 
dwelt  upon  the  moose  that  had  come  charg- 
ing across  the  open  that  night  upon  the 
bog.  Fretting  and  peevish,  he  awaited 
freedom,  intent  upon  returning  into  the 
wilderness  to  take  up  the  trail  again.  Once 
out  of  the  limbo  of  the  law,  he  plunged 
into  the  heart  of  the  forest;  and  then  for 
many  days  they  heard  no  more  of  Tom 
Bear,  —  no,  nor  for  many  months. 

December  was  waning.  The  last  bear 
had  gone  hooting  to  its  den,  while  the  cari- 
bou were  "  using  "  now  along  the  open  bogs. 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.       233 

The  prowling  marten,  the  black  cat,  and  the 
lucifee  were  already  growing  lean  on  winter 
fare,  and  the  black  hide  of  the  moose  was 
dingy  and  thick  in  the  face  of  the  bitter 
weather.  Following  the  trails  the  Indian 
came  into  Nictau,  where  the  peak  was  blue- 
white  with  the  clustering  snows.  Thence  he 
ranged  southward,  ever  looking  for  that  track, 
searching  the  winter  ranges,  trying  the  ridges 
one  after  the  other,  and  in  the  end  falling 
upon  a  slot  a  span's  length  long. 

"  Huh !  him  so  big  moose  ! "  he  muttered. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon ;  another  hour 
and  the  dusk  would  slink  into  dark.  He 
gazed  a  moment  at  the  sky ;  then  wet  a  fore- 
finger and  tested  the  wind.  Settling  his 
blanket  coat  about  him,  he  set  off  almost  at 
right  angles  to  the  trail,  swinging  slowly  to  a 
parallel  course,  and,  cautiously  working  on- 
ward step  by  step,  sought  along  the  forest 
for  his  quarry.  His  craft  told  him  that  the 
moose  was  near,  and  the  Milicete's  know- 
ledge—  "White  man  go  fast;  moose  go 
faster ;  Injun  go  slow,  catch  him  lying  down  " 


234  IN  THE  FOREST. 

—  was  before  him.  He  crawled  along,  in 
fact,  peering  over  the  crest  of  the  hills  and 
searching  the  hollows  before  he  showed  him- 
self. Then,  on  the  brink  of  a  little  pitch,  he 
straightened  suddenly  and  threw  up  his  gun. 

The  bull  was  lying  in  the  same  blind  valley 
where  he  had  been  born  into  the  world. 
Man,  for  the  moment,  was  forgotten  ;  yet, 
there  on  the  crown  of  the  hill,  man,  evil  and 
destructive,  was  staring  down  with  glittering 
eyes.  His  memory  fled  back  to  the  day 
when  he  had  ranged  this  covert  as  a  feeble 
calf.  There  was  the  place  where  the  leaping 
lucifee  had  crouched  to  spring;  here  the 
very  windfall  under  which  the  mother  cow 
had  rested  at  the  time.  Overhead,  even  as 
in  the  ages  past,  the  peak  loomed  heavenward, 
confronting  the  clouds  with  its  majesty,  its 
breast  clothed  with  wisps  of  vapour,  and  the 
ageless  forests  at  its  feet. 

Listlessly  the  wind  stirred  round  the  gully, 
and  the  bull  shambled  to  his  feet.  He  stared 
up  the  slope,  and  saw  the  Indian's  rifle  spring 
to  aim.  An  instant's  pause,  a  moment  of 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        235 

baffling  effort ;  he  swung  ponderously  about, 
his  heavy  bulk  moving  undeterminedly  in 
the  close  confines.  Then  the  woods  clattered 
again  with  reverberating  echo ;  he  strode  the 
windfall  at  a  single  step,  and  from  his 
shoulder  a  gush  of  blood  spattered  the 
untracked  snow.  In  his  wake  followed  the 
repeating  thunder  of  the  gun,  while  his  ears 
sang  with  the  whimpering  bullets  flying  after. 
Heaving  up  the  farther  slope,  he  drove  madly 
through  the  copse ;  a  riot  of  sounds,  of  crash- 
ing stubs,  of  horn  ringing  upon  hard  wood, 
marked  his  way  through  the  thickness. 
Away  to  the  northward,  and  behind,  a  patient, 
merciless  enemy  was  picking  the  way,  and 
gloating  over  the  red  blurs  upon  the  trail. 
Night  fell,  yet  still  the  bull  ranged  on. 
The  blood  had  ceased  to  flow,  but  his 
shoulder  was  stiff  and  working  sorely. 
Through  the  silent  forest  he  took  his  way, 
clinging  to  the  ridges  where  his  horns  were 
unimpeded,  skirting  white-veiled  ponds, — 
northward,  northward  toward  the  blank 
depths  of  the  Upsalquitch,  the  one  safe  haven 


*36  IN  THE  FOREST. 

in  this  hour  of  unwonted  peril.  With  the 
dawn  he  circled  on  his  back  track,  and  lay 
down  on  the  crest  of  a  hill,  where  he  might 
see  an  enemy  from  afar.  A  few  hours  of 
inactivity  stiffened  his  shoulder  until  it  was 
an  agony  to  move.  Looking  backward,  he 
saw  something  loping  along,  keeping  stead- 
fast to  his  trail,  and  peering  eagerly  ahead. 
It  was  his  enemy  —  coming.  Wearily  he 
struggled  to  his  feet,  stood  watching  for  a 
moment  with  lowered  crest,  and  then  took 
up  again  the  flight.  Over  hill  and  barren, 
northward  across  the  tangled  sweep  of  lake 
and  stream,  sounding  the  ice  with  staggering 
feet,  the  bull  plodded,  the  foam  freezing  upon 
his  jaws  and  the  wound  burning  upon  his 
shoulder.  Miles  farther  on  he  paused  again, 
browsing  scantly,  and  lying  down  once  more. 
But  his  rest  was  vain.  The  loping  figure, 
persistent,  unmerciful,  was  still  clinging  to 
the  chase,  following  the  broad  slots  in  the 
snow,  and  with  the  one  object  of  destruction 
before  it.  Night  fell  when  the  chase  had 
crossed  far  beyond  the  upper  end  of  the 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        237 

Nepisiquit  Carry,  the  bull  lagging  along, 
blundering  his  way  through  the  brush,  his 
breath  heavy  and  hoarse.  Here  he  rested 
during  the  dark  hours,  rising  at  the  dawn  to 
plod  still  farther  northward  in  weariful  effort. 
So  far  he  had  outwitted  the  destroyer ;  but 
then,  whose  persistence  was  to  win  in  the 
end?  The  Milicete,  with  the  obstinate  pur- 
pose of  his  race,  had  determined.  It  was 
ordained,  for  had  not  nature  given  the  moose 
for  his  food  and  covering  ?  He  had  taken 
up  the  trail  pledged  to  follow  the  quarry  till 
endurance  on  one  side  or  the  other  should 
fail.  At  night  he  camped  on  the  track, 
resuming  it  when  the  light  was  high  enough 
to  show  the  way.  Onward,  ever  onward, 
went  the  chase,  the  miles  falling  in  their 
wake,  and  the  distant  pinnacle  growing  blue 
in  the  perspective. 

A  sudden  frenzy  of  rage  overwhelmed  the 
hunted  creature.  He  turned,  a  living,  quiver- 
ing form  of  fury.  He  beat  the  bushes  with 
his  horns,  grunting,  his  mane  bristling  as  in 
the  days  of  rutting  wrath.  The  Milicete,  far 


238  IN  THE  FOREST. 

behind,  heard  the  challenge,  and  smiled 
darkly.  He  knew.  Ere  long,  now,  the  quarry 
would  be  at  bay,  But  a  shift  in  the  wind 
brought  the  taint  sweeping  forward  to  the 
swaying  prey,  and,  his  fury  deserting,  he  fled 
as  before. 

Desperation  fell  upon  the  heart  of  the  flee- 
ing creature.  He  felt  his  strength  departing, 
and  a  longing,  deep  as  the  desire  of  love, 
suffused  his  breast  He  paused  at  the  crest 
of  a  ridge,  and  looked  backward  across  the 
rolling  stretch  of  forest  to  where  the  moun- 
tain swept  up  from  the  plain  and  clothed  its 
breast  among  the  clouds.  There  he  had 
drawn  the  inspiration  of  life,  and  there  he 
should  die.  The  fastnesses  of  the  Upsal- 
quitch  were  too  remote  for  him  to  hope  that 
his  remaining  strength  would  bear  him  to 
them.  Yet  irresolutely  he  felt  that  safety  lay 
in  that  dark  region  far  in  the  north,  and 
irresolutely  he  turned.  Gathering  his  forces 
together,  he  swung  westward,  and  by  a  long 
loop  cleared  his  pursuer.  Then,  with  the 
goal  set  before  him,  he  shacked  away  to  the 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.       239 

south,  the  last  fires  of  vitality  burning  with 
renewed  vigour.  Night  came  again,  and  at 
the  following  dawn  he  was  still  going.  His 
eye  was  dull  and  sickly,  and  the  breath  had 
frozen  in  long  icicles  upon  his  muffle  and 
fringe.  He  lurched  along  through  the  trees, 
his  head  hanging  low  and  a  fever  burning  in 
his  wound. 

The  first  flakes  of  the  coming  storm  fell 
among  the  trees,  and  the  chase  hurried  on. 
It  crossed  the  ice  at  the  foot  of  Nictau,  and, 
skirting  the  edge  of  the  cedar-bound  bay, 
made  onward  along  the  mountain's  western 
flank.  The  moose  hobbled  painfully,  every 
step  an  agony  to  his  burning  shoulder.  But 
across  the  ice,  when  he  paused  on  the  edge 
of  the  forest  to  look  back,  was  the  same  lop- 
ing figure,  inevitable  as  the  passages  of  death. 
He  hurried.  Climbing  the  edge  of  the 
valley,  he  plunged  over  into  the  hollow,  and 
there  before  him  stood  the  place  of  his  last 
mortal  struggle.  Behind  a  flanking  windfall 
he  paused,  his  breath  roaring,  his  head  to  the 
foe,  and  a  grim  resolve  manifest  in  his  eye. 


240  IN  THE  FOREST. 

A  sound  stirred  him.  A  loping  figure 
was  swinging  through  the  woods,  brushing 
its  way  through  the  thickets,  and  peering 
along  the  vistas.  Haste  and  eagerness  be- 
spoke themselves  in  the  Milicete's  manner; 
the  time  for  the  killing  had  come.  The  bull 
drew  himself  together,  his  orbs  bloodshot 
and  the  breath  whistling  through  his  flaccid 
nostrils.  Once  more  fury  possessed  him. 
He  waited ;  the  figure  of  death  drew  nearer. 
He  gathered  his  energies  in  mad  earnest. 
Skulking  like  a  caribou  calf,  he  waited  until 
the  Milicete  was  almost  upon  him ;  then, 
silent,  he  hurled  himself  upon  his  destroyer. 

A  spurt  of  flame  flared  through  the  dusk ; 
a  din  of  thunders  surged  in  his  ears.  He 
felt  something  shock  his  very  vitals  with  a 
touch  of  fire.  Blindness  was  upon  him. 
He  plunged  forward ;  another  crash.  There 
was  man,  and  the  rage  of  the  moose  was  sub- 
lime. His  enemy,  appalled,  sought  to  leap 
aside.  His  snowshoe  tripped  upon  a  stub ; 
he  stumbled  and  fell.  With  a  downward, 
cutting  stroke  of  a  fore  foot  the  bull  struck 


AT  THE  END    OF  THE   TRAIL.        241 

him  to  earth  as  he  sought  to  rise,  and  stood 
over  the  prostrate,  battered  form,  trampling 
in  insensate  fury.  But  he  could  not  see ; 
his  knees  were  weak  beneath  him ;  with  a 
last,  gasping  roar  he  lunged  forward,  strove 
to  rise,  and  fell  back,  with  his  antlered  crown 
resting  across  the  bole  of  a  fallen  tree.  Then 
the  snow  fell,  soft  and  white  and  obliterating. 
Overhead  was  the  mountain,  dark  and  austere, 
looming  large  upon  the  houseless  woods,  and 
in  its  shadow  the  tragedy,  cloaked  with 
silence. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THE    DUNGARVAN    WHOOPER.1 


ACROSS  the  face  of  nature  strode  Mc- 
Taggart,  a  gallant  figure  in  the  fore- 
ground. Through  a  vent  in  the  top  of  his 
hat  a  tuft  of  sandy  hair  arose  like  a  sprig  of 
sorrel,  while  over  his  breast  one  red  suspen- 
der was  latticed  in  relief  as  vivid  as  a  ribbon 
of  the  Bath  upon  the  breast  of  nobility.  But 
what  cared  McTaggart  for  splendour  of 
raiment  ?  His  trousers,  overwrought  by 
adventures  with  the  windfalls,  flapped  their 
pennants  about  his  legs,  and  a  jail  delivery  of 
his  toes  seemed  impending  through  the  holes 
in  his  moosehide  moccasins.  His  manner, 
however,  with  all  the  woe  of  his  garments, 
was  gayety  itself,  and  in  one  hand  he  flour- 
ished a  fish  spear,  —  three  iron  prongs  upon 
an  ashen  staff.  Cautiously,  with  catlike 
steps,  he  walked  out  upon  the  sluiceway,  and, 

1  From  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
242 


THE  DUNGARVAN  WHOOPER.         243 

peering  into  the  pool  below,  scanned  the 
depths  as  one  glances  down  a  bill  of  fare  in 
search  of  a  dinner ;  for  thus  McTaggart  pre- 
pared to  dine. 

"  Ay,"  he  cried  with  glee,  "  a  fat  fish  and  a 
bigun!" 

Lewis — frayed  and  weatherbeaten  like 
his  companion  —  looked  up  from  his  work  in 
the  canoe,  and  threw  back  a  sarcastic  com- 
ment. 

"  Stab  him,  then,  ye  thief ;  or  if  he  sees  ye 
he'll  scoot,  and  we'll  be  to  bed  hungrylike ! " 

Now,  even  out  into  the  wilderness  the 
laws  of  her  Majesty's  province  reach  a  jeal- 
ous hand.  Without  payment  for  the  privi- 
lege, you  shall  not  take  her  fish,  nor  shall  you 
kill  her  game.  Also,  under  no  circumstance, 
shall  you  stab  salmon  with  a  spear.  It  is  a 
misdemeanour,  —  brother  to  a  felony,  almost, 
—  but  what  cared  McTaggart  for  that?  It 
was  from  Wiggin,  lessee  of  the  salmon  water, 
that  he  was  poaching ;  and  between  them  no 
love  was  lost.  Here,  by  a  sharp  and  grace- 
less trick,  the  newcomer  had  bought  the  river 


244  IN  THE  FOREST. 

rights,  thus  ousting  Burling,  who  long  had 
held  the  lease.  Friendship  runs  deep  in  the 
woods,  and  Burling  was  the  friend  of  McTag- 
gart,  —  his  patron  and  employer,  —  so  Mc- 
Taggart  consoled  his  respect  for  the  law  with 
the  idea  that  to  steal  Wiggin's  fish  was  fine 
poetic  justice.  Moreover,  he  and  Lewis  were 
in  need  of  food,  in  itself  a  sufficient  reason. 
He  raised  his  arm,  his  eye  upon  the  salmon 
scouring  the  gravel  below,  and  at  this  instant 
Lewis  called  out  in  alarm :  — 

"  Sawny,  quick !     Here's  Wiggin !" 
But  the  spear  had  driven  downward,  Mc- 
Taggart,  with  a  grunt,  striving  against  the 
frantic  writhing  of  the  transfixed  fish.    Then, 
with  a  dexterous  flirt  of  the  elbow,  he  started 
the  salmon  upward,  and  landed  it,  gasping 
and  quivering,  upon  the  sluiceway. 
"  Leave  it !  "  cried  Lewis,  "  leave  it ! " 
McTaggart  was  not  of  that  kind.     But  he 
had  worked  for  his  dinner,  and  would  have 
it  even  in  the  face  of  Wiggin  and  of  all  the 
statutes  of  the  Dominion.     He  clutched  the 
fish  by  the  gills,  leaped  for  the  canoe,  and  a 


THE  DUNGARVAN  WHOOPER.        245 

moment  later  the  bark  dipped  over  the  brink 
of  the  pitch  and  ran  its  frightened  course 
among  the  rapids. 

A  cry  told  that  they  were  pursued.  They 
saw  the  lessee  and  his  warden,  Gower,  launch 
their  canoe  in  the  eddy  and  ply  after  them 
with  eager  effort.  Bending  to  the  paddles, 
they  urged  their  craft  along  until,  rounding 
a  turn  in  the  stream,  they  plunged  into  the 
mouth  of  a  bogan,  and  were  hidden  from 
view.  But  still,  with  galloping  strokes,  they 
pushed  onward,  resting  only  when  a  long 
stretch  of  dead  water  lay  between  them  and 
the  river. 

"  Ugh !  "  grunted  McTaggart,  "  did  ye  hear 
'em  holler  ?  'Twas  like  the  Whooper  —  ay? " 

"  The  Dungarvan  Whooper  ye're  meanin', 
Sawny?  Like  enough  it  was.  I  hear  tell, 
man,  too,  that  the  Whooper's  come  back  to 
the  upper  Miramichi.  It's  sore  for  the  man 
that  meets  him,  or  Wiggin  ayther." 

McTaggart  leaned  back  to  laugh,  hooting 
in  derision  at  Lewis's  misgiving  tone.  "  Pish, 
Reddy  !  Ye're  that  much  of  a  born  fool  ye'd 


246  IN  THE  FOREST. 

be  hearkenin'  to  the  last  ole  woman's  tale  to 
be  settin'  ye  dramin'  the  weeks  to  come. 
The  Whooper  —  fiddlesticks!" 

"  No  sich  at  all,"  —  this  in  protesting  key. 
"  Ye'll  be  sayin'  next  there's  no  sich  as  the 
bogy.  Ye'll  hole  yer  tongue,  Sawny  McTag- 
gart,  in  the  face  of  others  better  infarmed 
and  ov  longer  experience.  Wit'  these  eyes  I 
have  nex'  to  seen  the  Whooper,  and  was  it 
not  me,  —  ay,  I  ask  it,  —  was  it  not  me  that 
found  Tighe  the  teamster  dead  in  the  snow 
wit'  a  horrid  light  in  his  eyes  that'll  be  lookin' 
heavenward  till  the  last  angel  trumps  ?  " 

McTaggart  scoffed  him  idly,  for  the  tale 
was  not  new.  At  every  hovel  along  the 
river,  in  every  camp  in  the  forest,  along  the 
logging  roads,  and  on  the  spring  drive,  it  had 
been  told  with  all  its  variations.  At  every 
fireside,  woodsmen  whispered  the  deeds  of 
the  something  that  went  galloping  through 
the  forest  aisles,  grim  and  grotesquely  crying, 
whooping  into  the  distance.  There  were 
stories  —  detailed  and  sinister  —  of  men  left 
out  overnight ;  of  the  brush  crackling  with  a 


THE  DUNGARVAN  WHOOPER.         247 

heavy  tread,  of  an  unseen  horror  that  shrieked 
when  disturbed.  Half-breed,  Indian,  white, 
all  had  their  tales  to  tell,  some  braggartly 
scornful,  others  tremulous  with  fright.  Tighe 
they  always  told  of,  —  Tighe,  the  teamster, 
found  dead  in  a  winter  logging  road,  a  red 
mark  across  his  throat,  and,  far  down  in  a 
black  cedar  swamp,  the  sound  of  awful  deri- 
sion. McTaggart  shuddered  mockingly, 
while  Lewis  rounded  up  the  story. 

"  Horrid,  Reddy,  and  may  the  Whooper 
get  Wiggin  for  his  sins !  But  'twixt  the  two, 
lad,  ye'll  be  losin'  yer  wits  to  a  cat-owl.  Ay, 
man,  but  I  think—  Ho  !  what's  that  ?  " 

A  crackling  in  the  brush  broke  the  silence 
as  some  heavy  body  lunged  through  the 
brake.  McTaggart,  with  an  exclamation, 
seized  the  fish  spear,  while  Lewis,  pale-faced, 
crouched  in  the  canoe.  They  listened  in- 
tently, the  brush  crashing  anew. 

"Ah-r!     Look  at  there!" 

McTaggart  pointed  the  spear  toward  the 
forest  edge.  A  black  bulk  stepped  out  strid- 
ing down  the  bog  growth,  —  a  moose,  a  big 


248  IN  THE  FOREST. 

bull !  But  here,  high  up  in  the  New  Bruns- 
wick wilds,  a  moose  is  a  familiar  of  the  soli- 
tude. It  was  the  size  of  this  bull,  the  width 
and  breadth  of  his  growing  antlers,  that 
transfixed  them  with  amazement.  It  was  a 
bull  moose,  such  as  the  two  had  rarely  seen ; 
and  silent  in  admiration  their  glittering  eyes 
took  in  its  unmatched  bigness.  At  the 
shoulder  it  stood  higher  than  a  work-horse, 
—  black,  blurred  with  the  mud  of  a  noonday 
wallow,  in  its  uncouth  greatness  it  seemed  a 
stray  from  the  primeval  ages.  Its  square  gray 
muffle,  tentatively  trying  the  air,  swung  from 
side  to  side ;  then,  as  if  assured  of  safety,  it 
crashed  down  the  bank,  plunging  to  its  flanks 
in  the  muddy  run. 

"Reddy,  Reddy,  will  ye  look!"  McTag- 
gart  cried,  under  his  breath.  "  D'ye  see  the 
scar  on  the  shoulder,  forrard,  eh  ?  D'ye  mind 
the  Wabsky  —  the  one  down  there  Burling 
shot  at?  Ay,  'tis  him,  the  beauty!" 

A  long,  narrow  blaze,  half  hidden  by  the 
hair,  showed  upon  the  shoulder, — the  mark 
of  an  old  bullet  wound.  Dipping  to  his  crest 


THE  DUN  GARY  AN  WHOOPER.         249 

in  the  muddy  run,  grunting  and  guzzling  in 
his  hunger,  the  moose  began  his  evening 
meal;  and  while  his  head  was  lowered  be- 
neath the  surface  McTaggart  pushed  the 
canoe  along,  the  water  whispering  under  the 
prow.  He  was  bound  to  have  a  nearer  view, 
though  Lewis,  in  the  bow,  felt  his  fears  grow 
painful  as  they  glided  down  upon  the  feeding 
lord  of  the  swamps.  Stroke  by  stroke  they 
drew  nearer,  McTaggart  murmuring  in  ad- 
miration. The  moose  looked  up,  a  slow  sus- 
picion manifest  as  he  turned  his  head  along 
his  flank,  looking  backward  toward  the  canoe. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  motionless  in  stupid 
fright ;  then  an  angry  terror  transformed  him. 
They  saw  the  hair  of  his  hump  rise  bristling, 
he  snorted,  and  plunged  around. 

"  Look  out !  "  exclaimed  Lewis,  launching 
himself  backward  on  his  elbows ;  "  look  out ! 
He'll  run  us  down  ! " 

A  swift  stroke  of  the  paddle  drove  the 
canoe  aside,  and  at  this,  the  bull's  boldness 
deserting  him,  he  wore  around  heavily  and 
scrambled  up  the  bank.  Breasting  frantic- 


250  IN  THE  FOREST. 

ally  through  the  brush,  his  antlers  guarded 
on  his  shoulders,  he  shuffled  along  toward 
the  forest,  and,  with  a  final  crash  of  dead 
wood,  swung  away  into  the  safe  haven  of  the 
woods.  For  some  time  the  two  men  sat 
there  silent  and  wondering,  while  far  beyond 
in  the  further  fastnesses  of  the  bush  the 
panic-stricken  lord  of  the  solitudes  fled  with 
swinging  strides. 

"  I'll  mind  him  when  the  season  opens ! " 
cried  Lewis,  slatting  the  gunwale  with  a 
heavy  hand.  "  Them  horns  then'll  be  worth 
the  price  of  a  quarter's  wages  o'  work.  That's 
my  moose  yon  !  " 

McTaggart  glared  at  this  with  uncompro- 
mising severity. 

"Ye'll  forgit  them  words,  Reddy  Lewis, 
and  it's  no  sich  thing.  Him  yon  is  Burling's 
moose,  and  if  ye  offer  wunst  to  draw  sight 
on  him  in  these  here  patch  o'  woods,  ye're  no 
longer  friend  o'  mine.  D'ye  hear  ?  " 

Lewis  heard,  and  his  jaw  fell.  "  Five  feet 
and  a  half  them  horns  spread,  and  I'd  like 
they  was  mine.  But  as  you  say,  —  as  you 


THE  DUN  GAR  VAN   WHOOPER.        251 

say,  —  him's  Burling's  moose,  though  'twill 
be  lookin'  for  one  cloud  after  a  rainstorm  to 
find  him  when  the  runnin'  season's  on.  Wait, 
though,  wait  till  I  find  if  this  be  where  he 
works." 

He  clattered  ashore,  all  excitement,  and 
followed  swiftly  in  the  trail  of  the  vanishing 
moose.  McTaggart  watched  him  out  of 
sight,  drew  forth  a  pipe,  and  prepared  to 
smoke.  A  mink  came  skipping  along  a  log 
to  keep  him  company,  a  muskrat  squeaked 
in  the  bank,  and  overhead  a  flight  of  ducks 
flipped  to  and  fro  in  search  of  lodging  for 
the  night.  Once  the  big  salmon  at  his  feet 
stirred  with  a  last  shudder ;  then  silence  and 
the  twilight  settled  down  upon  the  wild,  and 
McTaggart  stretched  himself  in  an  ecstacy 
of  comfort. 

"  Got  ye  there,  Sawny  McTaggart,"  a  harsh 
voice  croaked.  "  Got  ye,  hey !  " 

There  almost  at  his  elbow  were  Wiggin 
and  the  fish  warden.  They  had  spied  him 
from  the  bend  below,  trying  the  bogan  when 
the  main  river  drew  blank,  and  quietly  had 


252  IN  THE  FOREST. 

crawled  up  behind  his  back.  Wiggin  was 
grinning  in  delight,  and  at  the  sight  of  the 
fish  lying  at  McTaggart's  feet  his  elation 
broke  into  a  cry. 

"  There's  the  salmon,  —  taken  red-handed, 
Sawny  McTaggart,  you  poaching  thief !  " 

"  No  names,  there,"  he  growled.  "  No 
names,  or — " 

The  remainder  was  indistinguishable,  but 
McTaggart's  manner  sufficed.  He  waved 
the  spear,  menacing  their  approach,  and  the 
canoe  backed  off  in  energetic  haste. 

"  Don't  bother  him,  Gower !  Come  away !" 
Wiggin  gave  these  orders  with  less  assurance 
than  his  first  charge. .  "  Let  him  be,  Gower ; 
it's  felonious  assault,  and  we'll  swear  out  a 
warrant  for  that  too." 

Shaking  his  fist  at  McTaggart,  Wiggin 
helped  paddle  the  canoe  about,  when  they 
bore  swiftly  away.  Then  Sawny  threw 
his  spear  clattering  into  the  bottom  of  the 
canoe  and  drew  a  deep  breath.  He  was  in 
for  it.  He  knew  Wiggin's  methods  and 
manner,  and  was  convinced  that  the  law 


THE  DUNG  ARYAN   WHOOPER.        253 

would  be  pushed  to  an  extremity,  and  what 
would  happen  then  ?  "  Sawny !  Sawny !  "  a 
hoarse  whisper  called  to  him.  "  Air  they 
gone  ? "  Lewis  had  returned,  in  time  to 
hear  an  echo  of  the  colloquy  between  the  two 
canoes.  He  listened  gloomily  while  McTag- 
gart  told  the  story,  and  for  once  was  dumb. 
McTaggart,  as  Wiggin  had  said,  was  taken 
red-handed.  He  must  stand  the  double  pen- 
alty of  poaching  and  of  spearing  fish,  all 
meaning  a  heavy  fine  and  perhaps  imprison- 
ment. There  was  no  escape ;  even  McTag- 
gart's  ready  imagination  failed  in  the  face  of 
the  situation.  Silently  the  two  paddled  along 
the  breast  of  the  rising  land,  looking  for  a 
"  night  chance  "  to  camp,  and  when  the  fire 
was  lighted  and  the  kettle  boiling,  McTag- 
gart at  last  made  up  his  mind. 

"  There's  no  other  way  from  out  of  it," 
he  explained  dolefully.  "  I'll  jus'  be  takin' 
to  the  bush  for  want  o'  better;  and  what's 
to  happen  to  Janie  and  the  bairns,  I'm 
thinkin',  when  their  man's  out  lyin'  in  the 
woods  ? " 


254  IN  THE  FOREST. 

There  was  an  answer,  dark  enough,  to  this 
in  Lewis's  face.  But  he  shook  his  head  with- 
out other  response,  and  glowered  into  the 
fire.  McTaggart,  indeed,  must  take  to  the 
bush,  for  no  other  alternative  but  jail  was 
offered.  A  day's  work  threw  up  a  shack  for 
the  outlaw  at  the  head  of  the  big  pond,  where 
Lewis  left  him  to  paddle  down  river  with 
the  news.  And  a  sad  day  it  was  for  Janie 
McTaggart  when  it  came,  Lewis  fiddling 
about  on  one  foot,  and  making  the  best  of  it 
by  blurting  out  the  situation.  Janie  listened 
with  troubled  face,  but  did  not  weep,  for  she 
was  of  stronger  stuff  than  that. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what's  best  done,"  she 
protested.  "  But  what  is  ut,  I'm  askin'  ?  I'd 
sell  the  coo  "  (she  meant  cow),  "  but  what'd 
the  bairns  be  doin'  for  their  milk?  And 
what  price  'ud  it  be  bringin'?  There's  no 
way  out,  Reddy  Lewis,  but  you  to  go  back 
to  the  bush,  and  bring  him  in.  It's  sore  times 
that  the  man  be  up  in  jail,  but  I'd  rather  him 
in  it  than  to  be  gallivantin'  nowheres  out 
there  wit'  that  empty  noddle  o'  his'n.  I'll 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.         255 

lave  him  to  think  it  out  a  week,  and  then 
yell  be  goin'  after  him,  Reddy  Lewis,  and 
no  thanks  to  ye  for  lettin'  him  and  us  into 
days'  throubles  like  this." 

Lewis,  with  the  shock-haired  McTaggart 
children  scrambling  about  his  feet,  could 
make  no  reply.  He  shambled  out  with 
hanging  head,  Janie's  tongue  lashing  him 
down  the  road  and  out  of  hearing,  and  at  the 
bridge  he  met  Wiggin  and  Gower.  They 
were  bustling  along,  Gower  with  a  paper  in 
his  hand  that  Lewis  had  no  doubt  was  a 
warrant.  Wiggin  confronted  the  sullen-eyed 
Lewis,  who  brushed  him  aside.  "  Where's 
McTaggart  ?"  demanded  the  lessee.  "  I  want 
him." 

"  The  devil  ye  do ! "  remarked  Lewis 
coolly,  with  a  scowl,  passing  on.  He  took 
satisfaction  in  the  belief  that  when  Janie 
McTaggart  had  heard  their  mission  she 
would  wind  a  blast  about  their  ears  that 
would  add  some  comfort  to  the  oppressed 
when  he  heard  of  it.  But,  after  all,  it  was 
little  help  for  the  outlaw.  With  his  uncheer- 


256  IN  THE  FOREST. 

ful  thoughts  for  company,  McTaggart  was 
tramping  the  solitude  far  up  at  the  head  of 
the  river,  and  dark  times  were  in  store  for 
his  clan.  A  week  later,  Lewis  struck  into 
the  woods.  Things  were  in  a  fair  way  to 
set  the  McTaggarts  emigrating  across  the 
line,  and  this  dark  thought  was  in  his  mind 
when  he  overhauled  Gower  lurking  along 
the  river  in  quest  of  other  poachers.  He 
pushed  his  canoe  into  an  eddy  and  lay  there 
watching,  too,  when  Gower  swung  about  and 
saw  him. 

"  Mornin',  Gower,"  Lewis  called  doubtfully. 

But  Gower  did  not  resent  his  appearance. 
His  brow  was  drawn  and  troubled,  and  care 
clung  about  him  with  oppressive  weight. 

"  Oh,  is  it  Reddy  Lewis  only  ?  "  he  mum- 
bled. 

"  Ay  —  only  Reddy ;  and  did  ye  think  the 
lost  angel  was  claimin'  ye  for  yer  sins,  Terry 
Gower?" 

Gower  drew  up  his  setting  pole  and  pushed 
his  canoe  abreast  of  Lewis,  where  he  clung, 
staring  into  the  ripping  current. 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.         257 

"  What's  the  news  ?  "  Then  without  wait- 
ing he  branched  off  into  a  new  drift,  rambling 
about  from  one  thing  to  another,  from  the 
last  run  of  fish  to  a  bank  beaver  working  in 
the  upper  dead  water.  Lewis  eyed  him 
stoutly,  and  then  took  matters  into  his  own 
hands.  "  What's  up  wit'  ye  now,  Terry 
Gower;  and  if  ye're  thinkin'  o'  Sawny 
McTaggart,  it's  an  evil  day's  work  ye  done 
there,  what  wit'  his  wife  and  childern." 

Gower  sniffed,  while  he  looked  uneasily 
about  him.  "Not  that,  Reddy,  it's  not 
that !  "  he  cried  sharply.  "  The  Whooper's 
come  back.  I  seen  him !  " 

Lewis  was  prone  to  laugh,  but,  notwith- 
standing, his  belief  in  the  Whooper  improved. 
"What's  that, — the  Whooper  and  ye've  seen 
him  ? "  Gower  nodded  dully.  Somewhere 
in  the  past  a  strain  of  Indian  had  been  in- 
fused into  the  Gower  line,  and  now  it  showed 
in  the  man's  low  superstition.  He  was  even 
trembling,  and  with  little  pressure  told  his 
tale.  He  had  gone  up  to  the  big  pond  just 
before  nightfall  to  get  a  mess  of  trout,  and 


258  IN  THE  FOREST. 

while  at  the  work  a  figure  had  emerged 
from  the  woods. 

"  It  had  a  red  gash  acrost  it.  I  was  sittin' 
on  the  big  log  —  ye'll  mind  ut  at  the  spring 
hole  —  when  of  a  sudden  I  feel  all  creepy- 
like.  Lor'!  I  looks  up,  there's  the  Whooper 
beyant !  Wit'  that  it  screamed  —  ah-r  — 
awful !  Saints  that  be,  I  fell  backwuds,  and 
ut  screamed  agin.  God  forbid  I  live  to  see 
the  like  of  it  afterwards ! "  He  pressed  his 
hands  over  his  ears  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
dread  horror  of  the  Whooper's  cry,  the  echo 
of  its  shuddering  scream,  while  Lewis  sat 
back  gaping  at  his  fear. 

"  Terry  Gower,"  he  delivered  impressively, 
"  ye're  the  fust  to  see  the  Whooper  wit'  mor- 
tal eye.  Ye're  doomed,  man  —  doomed  — 
and  may  the  saints  have  mercy  on  ye  that 
have  sinned  sore.  D'ye  remember  Tighe, 
the  teamster?" 

He  pushed  on  up  the  river  with  a  lurking 
grin,  leaving  Gower  crouched  in  the  canoe ; 
and  at  nightfall  found  McTaggart  camped 
out  on  the  pond.  "  Ye're  to  come  home," 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.         259 

he  announced.  "  Janie  swears  she'll  not  be 
bidin'  alone  by  the  house  wit'  you  to  be 
cuttin'  didos  elsewhere.  Ye're  to  come  in, 
and  I'm  minded  the  jail's  fine  to  what  ye'll 
feel  when  yer  wife's  clapped  eye  and  tongue 
to  ye,  Sawny." 

"What's  else  for  the  news,  Reddy?"  asked 
McTaggart,  gloomily. 

"  Gower's  seen  the  Whooper,"  was  the 
prompt  answer.  "  What  I  was  sayin'  to  ye 
ye'll  remember,  Sawny  McTaggart,  and  the 
Whooper's  in  the  woods." 

McTaggart  questioned,  and  then  burst 
into  a  fit  of  laughter.  Lewis  believed  the 
other's  wits  gone,  until  McTaggart  drew 
out  of  his  merriment  with  a  jocose  gleam 
in  his  eye.  "'Twas  I,  ye  dummy!"  he 
tittered.  "  I  seen  him  fishin'  by  the  spring 
hole,  and  but  tried  him  wit'  a  screech,  bein' 
in  mem'ry  o'  his  luny  failin's.  And  the 
Whooper  was  wearin'  a  bloody  gash,  eh? 
Ay,  'twas  this,"  and  here  he  stuck  a  thumb 
under  the  lonesome  red  suspender,  and 
snapped  it  against  his  chest.  But,  much 


260  IN  THE  FOREST. 

against  his  will,  he  followed  Lewis  into  the 
settlements,  there  to  take  his  punishment. 
In  matters  of  this  order,  Wiggin  was  hardly 
laggard.  He  pursued  McTaggart  into  court 
with  a  jeer,  and  swore  down  upon  his  head 
every  heinous  detail  of  the  offence,  omitting 
only  the  assault,  which  he  reserved  for  future 
reference.  But  justice,  though  swift,  was 
lenient,  McTaggart's  previous  good  character 
serving  him  considerately.  Yet  the  fine 
imposed  was  a  facer,  and  when  this  judg- 
ment was  set  forth  he  was  appalled  at  the 
figure. 

"  A  fine,  —  ay !  Then  ye'd  best  be  lockin' 
me  up  the  day.  D'ye  think  I  can  pay  that 
offhand  like  as  if  I  made  money  in  me 
cellar?" 

He  was  resolved,  moreover,  to  stand  im- 
prisonment rather  than  to  pay,  but  at  this 
juncture  Janie  McTaggart  stepped  in  with 
a  firm  and  decisive  tread.  "Ye  think  ye '11 
be  loafin'  in  the  lockup,  eh  ? "  she  demanded 
caustically.  "  D'ye  think  ye'll  lave  the  babes 
and  me  to  nibble  our  fingers  for  a  dinner? 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.         261 

Ye've  not  the  money,  I'll  grant,  but  it's  a 
slippery  mind  ye  have  under  that  furze 
thatch  o'  yourn,  and  I'll  thank  ye,  Sawny 
McTaggart,  to  think  us  out  o'  this,  bein' 
that  ye  brung  us  to  it  unwillin'  as  a  lamb  to 
slaughter.  Sorrow  on  the  day  that  took  ye 
and  that  other  light  o'  folly,  Reddy  Lewis 
beyant,  moon-chasin'  into  the  woods  together. 
Speak  up,  I  say ! " 

"Ay,  I'll  speak.  D'you  know  where's  the 
money  to  be  got?  Am  I  a  banker  from 
the  States,  that  I  can  be  writin'  it  all  over 
the  face  o'  a  sheet  o'  paper?  The  best  I'll 
be  doin'  is  to  give  Day,  the  storekeeper,  my 
hand  o'  wrote  to  a  mortgage  that  I'm  as  like 
to  pay  as  the  whole  national  debt  o'  the 
univarse.  What's  now  ?  " 

Janie  threw  her  apron  over  her  head  and 
groaned.  His  suggestion  that  he  must 
give  the  farm  as  security  read  like  all  the 
awful  fiction  in  the  farm  newspapers  that 
runs  hand  in  hand  with  Hubbard  squash, 
sheep  rot,  ensilage,  and  valentine  verses. 
She  loved  her  home,  and  to  pawn  it  for 


262  IN  THE  FOREST. 

whatever  purpose  seemed  to  her  to  be  like 
sitting  on  the  doorstep  and  bidding  disaster 
step  in.  McTaggart  considered  the  proposi- 
tion gloomily,  for  there  was  little  work  in 
the  woods  till  the  fall  shooting  began,  and 
how  could  he  pay  off  the  debt  ?  Yet  there 
was  no  other  way.  McTaggart  shrewdly 
kept  clear  of  giving  a  mortgage,  pointing 
out  that  the  farm  was  there,  and  he'd  not 
be  making  way  with  it  overnight,  and  Day, 
who  knew  the  man's  rugged  honesty  in 
business  affairs,  was  willing  enough  to  ad- 
vance the  money  on  a  note.  But  when 
McTaggart  saw  the  interest  to  be  paid,  he 
was  horrified  and  showed  it  after  his  manner. 
"  Ye're  good  at  figures,  Mister  Day.  Eh,  — 
what's  that?  Oh,  I'm  but  notin'  the  intrust 
to  be  paid." 

With  the  proceeds  from  this  venture, 
McTaggart  paid  his  fine,  and  for  an  hour 
breathed  freer.  Yet  it  was  with  heavy  heart 
that  he  slouched  home,  and  besought  his 
wife  to  give  him  peace.  "  There'll  be  work 
yet,  Janie,  if  ye're  not  drivin'  me  first  to  a 


THE  DUNGARVAN  WHOOPER.         263 

bedlam.  Have  done,  and  give  me  a  bite  to 
eat."  Convinced  that  there  was  no  remedy 
in  sitting  with  idle  hands,  she  bestirred  her- 
self ;  though  with  the  odour  of  cooking  there 
was  wafted  in  from  the  cookroom  a  mono- 
tone of  subtle  compliments  upon  McTag- 
gart's  self-conscious  character.  But  there 
is  an  end  to  all  things,  and  Janie's  garrulous 
complaint  ceased  abruptly  at  a  thundering 
knock  upon  the  door,  that  flung  open  before 
the  answer,  admitting  Lewis. 

"Yell  git,  — git  out  quick!"  he  cried. 
"  Wiggin's  that  mad  ye've  got  off  wit'  a  fine 
he's  took  out  a  warrant  for  assault.  Ye'll 
mind  wavin'  the  spear  at  him  out  beyant 
the  day  av  it  all  ?  Git  —  there's  no  time  to 
be  lost!" 

McTaggart  stared  stupidly,  hardly  able 
to  comprehend.  But  Lewis  drove  him  to 
haste.  Wiggin  was  determined  to  hunt 
McTaggart  to  the  end,  and  there  was  no 
time,  indeed,  to  lose.  Without  the  pause 
for  a  sober,  second  thought,  they  flung  his 
things  together,  and  once  more  McTaggart 


264  IN  THE  FOREST. 

took  to  the  bush,  leaving  Janie,  sick  at  heart, 
alone  in  the  cabin  by  the  river.  Out  there 
in  the  wilderness,  her  husband  faced  the 
blank  solitude,  sick  and  sore  at  heart,  and 
thus  the  summer  passed  with  deeper  woe 
confronting.  Burling,  said  Lewis,  would  be 
along  soon,  and  then  there  would  be  an  end 
to  the  difficulty.  But  the  weeks  sped  by, 
and  Burling  did  not  come.  Week  after 
week  slipped  by;  the  shooting  had  begun, 
but  there  was  no  work  for  McTaggart.  An 
outlaw,  driven  to  the  woods  to  keep  his 
liberty,  was  not  exactly  the  sort  of  guide  to 
inspire  confidence  in  strangers.  None  of  the 
shooting  parties  would  engage  him,  though 
Lewis  tried  many.  So  McTaggart  settled 
down  doggedly  to  wait  until  Burling  should 
appear,  and,  in  the  meantime,  hunted  about 
in  search  of  the  big  bull  they  had  seen  that 
eventful  day.  And  just  after  the  calling  be- 
gan he  found  the  trail.  The  bull  was  keep- 
ing the  long  ridge  far  across  at  the  Gulquock, 
still  unmated  and  ranging  widely,  day  and 
night,  in  search  of  a  responsive  cow.  Me- 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.         265 

Taggart  knew  the  track  at  a  glance,  for  one 
point  of  the  hoof  had  been  broken,  and  its 
bigness  was  unmistakable.  He  followed, 
marking  the  bull's  direction,  and  on  the 
edge  of  a  small  black  pond  tried  him  with 
the  horn.  At  the  first  low  call,  the  moose 
answered  eagerly,  and  came  rioting  down 
to  the  water's  edge,  where  he  thrashed  the 
bushes  with  his  heavy  horns,  and,  at  a  re- 
sponsive grunt  from  Me  Taggart,  rushed  out 
into  the  open. 

"  Lors  !  "  murmured  McTaggart,  viewing 
the  breadth  and  bulk  of  the  spreading 
antlers,  "  it's  my  sowl  I'd  be  givin'  to  have 
Burling  see  him  wunst." 

He  left  the  bull  unmolested,  convinced 
that  he  would  not  wander  far  from  the 
clustering  chain  of  ponds,  and  his  next 
adventure  was  to  find  Wiggin  and  Gower 
in  the  woods.  McTaggart,  prowling  along 
the  ridge,  keeping  watch  and  ward  over 
his  big  bull,  spied  the  two  stealing  through 
the  timber.  He  hid  behind  a  windfall, 
watching,  and,  to  his  consternation,  saw 


266  IN  THE  FOREST. 

them  strike  upon  the  trail  where  the  moose 
had  passed  a  short  time  before.  Gower, 
with  an  exclamation,  pointed  to  the  slot, 
and,  stooping  over  the  marks  in  the  soft 
earth,  the  two  men  ranged  back  and  forth, 
all  excitement.  Then  Gower  waved  the 
way  the  bull  had  gone,  and  with  rapid  strides 
they  went  circling  off  to  leeward  in  full 
pursuit.  McTaggart  followed,  clinging  to 
the  cover,  the  chase  dipping  down  toward 
the  pond.  But  here  they  lost  the  trail,  run- 
ning afoul,  instead,  of  McTaggart's  lean-to. 

"  Oh,  and  what's  this  ?  "  he  heard  Wiggin 
demand  of  Gower,  as  he  crawled  near, 
Gower,  busily  pulling  over  McTaggart's 
things,  determined  soon  enough.  With 
that,  Wiggin's  face  was  convulsed  with 
anger. 

"  I'll  have  no  such  vermin  in  the  woods 
with  me  ! "  he  cried,  sticking  a  foot  through 
the  side  of  the  bark  hut.  McTaggart,  with 
a  malediction,  threw  up  his  gun  to  his 
shoulder,  and  levelled  the  sights  at  his 
enemy.  But  a  swift  thought  of  Janie  and 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.         267 

his  helpless  children  stayed  the  shot,  and 
Wiggin  never  knew  how  near  he  had  been 
to  sudden  death.  Tiring  of  kicking  at  the 
sides  of  the  lean-to,  he  whipped  a  match  out 
of  his  pocket,  and  touched  it  to  a  bit  of 
curling  bark.  He  held  the  splinter  down- 
ward until  it  blazed  and  crackled,  and 
Gower,  nonplussed  at  his  employer's  vin- 
dictiveness,  asked  what  he  was  intending, 
"  If  ye're  goin'  to  burn  him  out,"  he  re- 
marked, "  ye'll  leave  the  man  no  place  to  lay 
his  head.  He'll  soon  be  homeless  elsewhere, 
Mister  Wiggin,  for  I  mind  hearin',  now, 
that  there's  next  to  a  mortgage  on  the  farm 
below  he's  never  like  to  pay." 

"  He  has  what  ? "  demanded  Wiggin. 
"And  you  have  not  told  me  this  before. 
Out  with  it !  " 

His  manner  was  crafty  and  eager.  He 
ground  out  the  blazing  bark  with  his  heel, 
and  extracted  fact  after  fact  from  his  man. 
Then,  gripping  his  gun,  he  strode  off  through 
the  woods,  bidding  Gower  follow.  "  But  the 
moose  —  the  big  un,"  the  man  protested. 


268  IN  THE  FOREST. 

"  Devil  take  it !  "  growled  Wiggin,  striding 
on  through  the  forest.  They  reached  their 
camp,  threw  their  things  hastily  into  a  canoe, 
and  pushed  off.  At  nightfall,  the  day  after, 
the  two  reached  the  settlements,  when 
Wiggin's  eager  inquiries  found  that  there 
were  hard  times,  indeed,  at  the  McTaggarts'. 
Janie  had  told  her  sorrow  and  care  to  the 
neighbours,  for  the  simple-hearted  creature 
was  in  sore  need  of  sympathy.  She  had 
drawn  her  children  about  her,  weeping,  when 
a  ready-tongued  gossip  came  with  consola- 
tions and  a  real  desire  for  details.  In  a 
month  the  note  would  fall  due,  and  she  saw 
no  escape.  Wiggin  heard  all  this  on  his 
way  to  the  settlement  store,  where,  eager 
and  malevolently  grinning,  he  demanded  to 
see  Day. 

Mrs.  Day  admitted  the  visitor,  embar- 
rassed at  the  condescension  of  a  call.  "  Come 
right  in,  Mr.  Wiggin,  come  right  in.  Have 
a  cheer  and  sit  by.  Yes,  sir,  my  man's 
right  out  to  the  barn.  Tears  the  air's 
gittin'  sharp  —  hey  ?  Yes,  sir,  I  was  —  " 


THE  DUN  GARY  AN   WHO  OPE  R.         269 

Wiggin  inwardly  cursed  her  volubility, 
cut  her  short,  and  sent  for  Day.  The  man 
came  in,  and  the  two  adjourned  to  the 
front  room,  leaving  Gower  in  the  kitchen 
with  his  legs  sprawling  and  his  mouth  open 
in  wonder  at  his  employer's  vindictive  pur- 
suit. Wiggin  began  the  business  without 
formalities.  He  wished  to  know  what  Day 
would  take  for  the  note;  and  when  Day 
stared  in  astonishment  rapped  out  the  ques- 
tion again,  sharply,  insistently.  The  store- 
keeper demurred,  Wiggin  insisted,  threaten- 
ing to  withdraw  his  trade ;  and  the  upshot  of 
the  matter  was  that  he  got  the  note,  paying 
a  stiff  bonus  for  the  privilege.  It  was  irreg- 
ular, unjustifiable,  and  all  that,  but  Wiggin 
went  out  of  the  place,  vengeance  stirring  in 
his  breast,  and  an  evil  day  awaiting  the 
McTaggarts  when  their  oppressor's  oppor- 
tunity should  fall  due. 

More  days  passed  in  gloom.  Wiggin  and 
Gower  had  returned  to  the  woods,  and  the 
inevitable  was  drawing  nigh.  The  last 
week  in  September,  Lewis,  going  into  the 


270  IN  THE  FOREST. 

post-office,  found  a  letter.  "  How  long's 
this  been  waitin'?"  he  asked,  recognizing 
Burling's  handwriting.  He  tore  it  open, 
read  it  rapidly,  read  it  again,  and  then,  crum- 
pling it  in  his  hand,  walked  slowly  out. 
Burling  was  not  coming  into  the  woods ;  he 
had  written  to  say  it  was  impossible.  On 
the  way  up  the  road  he  met  Janie,  but  had 
not  the  heart  to  tell  her  then.  "  No  news," 
he  murmured,  shaking  his  head  and  walking 
on.  He  launched  a  canoe  dejectedly,  put 
his  things  aboard  in  a  disordered  heap,  and 
started  out  for  the  woods.  He  must  tell 
McTaggart,  and  what  should  happen  now 
was  only  too  painfully  obvious.  He  poled 
along,  thoughtful  and  gloomy,  utterly  down- 
cast over  the  prospects  for  the  McTaggarts, 
who  in  his  affections  were  as  his  kith  and  kin. 
At  the  head  of  the  river,  he  plunged  into 
the  forest  in  search  of  McTaggart's  camp, 
and  in  a  hollow  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  saw 
some  one  slinking  through  the  bush.  Just 
as  he  looked  he  saw  the  figure  dodge  behind 
a  tree,  and  at  this  semblance  of  suspicion 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.         271 

Lewis  himself  was  aroused.  "  Who's  there  ?  " 
he  cried  sharply.  It  was  Gower,  who,  find- 
ing himself  discovered,  stepped  out  into  the 
open.  "  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ? "  exclaimed 
Lewis,  disgustedly;  "and  what's  up  now, 
I'm  askin'  ?  "  Gower  hastened  toward  him, 
holding  out  a  hand  that  Lewis  ignored. 
"  You  seem  ready  to  hide  yerself,  Terry 
Gower,  and  what's  in  the  wind  ? " 

Gower  shuffled  about  from  one  foot  to  the 
other,  uneasily  looking  over  his  shoulder. 
"  Well,"  he  hesitated,  "  I  seen  a  moose  — 
an'  a  mighty  big  un — horns  so  big!"  He 
stretched  his  arms  to  indicate  the  breadth 
of  the  antlers.  "  Mister  Wiggin  seen  him, 
too,  but  sorter  got  the  staggers.  Lor',  he 
couldn't  shoot  at  all ! "  Lewis  looked  at 
him  keenly,  for  the  man's  eyes  were  shifting 
uneasily  toward  the  thicket  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  Lewis's  mind  was  made  up  that 
the  man  had  something  to  conceal,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  determined  that  it  lay  within 
the  clump  of  bushes.  "  Ye've  had  luck ! " 
he  ventured  suddenly,  and  leaned  forward 


272  IN  THE  FOREST. 

to    touch    Gower's  knife.     "Why,"   he    ex- 
claimed, "  it's  covered  all  wit'  blood  ! " 

Gower's  face  was  a  study  of  stupidity 
and  craft.  He  shook  his  head,  denying 
the  assertion  vehemently;  but  when  Lewis 
walked  swiftly  toward  the  thicket,  turning 
a  deaf  ear  to  Gower's  protests  and  appeals, 
a  jet  of  blood  along  the  brown  autumn 
leaves  confirmed  his  opinion  that  something 
was  amiss,  and  a  search  showed  he  was  right. 
There  in  the  thicket  lay  the  half-stripped 
carcass  of  a  fat  cow  moose,  and  to  kill  a  cow 
is  a  grievous  offence  against  the  statutes. 
"  So  it's  this,  Terry  Gower ! "  cried  Lewis 
sharply,  "  ye  was  tryin'  to  hide !  And  d'ye 
know  it's  a  big  fine  and  mebbe  jail  for  the 
man  that  kills  the  cow  moose  ? "  Gower 
appealingly  asserted  that  it  was  not  his 
work.  Lewis  laughed,  telling  him  to  try 
that  on  the  marines.  "  Not  yer  work,  eh  ? 
And  what's  this  axe  o'  yourn  doin'  standin' 
here  by  a  tree,  and  is  that  yer  gun  yon  or  no, 
Terry  Gower  ?  Mebbe  not,  or  have  the  gun 
and  the  axe  been  out  for  but  a  stroll  in  the 


THE  DUNG  ARYAN   WHOOPER.         273 

woods,  and    stopped  by  for  a  rest?     Ah-r ! 
Don't  be  lyin'  like  that ! " 

"  I  tell  ye  'twas  not  me  !  "  Gower  reiterated. 
"  Ye'll  not  be  peachin',  will  ye,  Reddy,  for 
the  guv'ment  'd  be  sore  after  me,  its  own 
warden.  What's  the  woman  and  her  childer 
to  do  then  ?  " 

"  Did  ye  think  av  that,  Terry  Gower,  when 
ye  laid  throuble  thick  to  the  door  o'  Sawny 
McTaggart  ?  —  answer  that  now  !  " 

"  Ah-r,  'twas  not  me,  though!  'Twas  Mr. 
Wiggin,  Reddy,  that  did  that ;  he's  yon  in 
the  camp  now,  and  '11  tell  ye ! " 

A  sudden  thought  transformed  Lewis's 
face  with  cunning.  "  Wiggin,  yon,  shot  the 
cow,  too !  "  he  cried,  with  a  strong  conviction. 
"  I've  guessed  it,"  —  this  shrilly,  —  "  and  ye'll 
not  be  lyin'  agin,  Terry  Gower." 

Gower  nodded ;  Wiggin  had  killed  the 
cow.  They  had  called  down  the  big  bull  the 
night  before,  but  a  cow  had  come  with  him. 
Gower  coaxed  and  pleaded  on  the  horn  for 
hours,  knowing  from  the  marks  they  had  seen 
on  the  range  that  the  bull  was  big.  But 


274  IN  THE  FOREST. 

though  eager  to  flirt  with  another  cow,  the 
bull  was  old  and  suspicious,  and  went  cir- 
cling about  in  the  darkness  trying  to  get  their 
scent  on  the  dead  night  air.  Just  as  they 
thought  they  had  him  coming  out  into  the 
open,  the  companion  cow  tired  of  the  struggle 
with  her  lord,  and  rushed  in  to  investigate. 
She  almost  charged  the  two  in  their  canoe, 
and,  discovering  the  peril,  fled,  crashing 
through  the  bush,  thoroughly  scaring  the  big 
bull.  In  vengeful  anger  at  this  interruption, 
Wiggin  fired  on  her  just  as  she  charged  the 
bank,  and  planted  a  bullet  in  her  ribs.  She 
fell,  struggled  to  her  feet,  and  went  on,  and 
at  dawn  Gower  had  tracked  her  to  the  place 
where  she  at  last  lay  down  and  died. 

"  Yer  camp's  right  handy  across,  eh  ? " 
asked  Lewis.  "  Then  I'll  be  payin'  a  visit 
to  Mr.  Wiggin."  He  announced  this  with 
emphasis,  deaf  to  Gower's  objections,  and, 
knowing  the  way,  led  on  through  the  forest. 
Wiggin  was  cleaning  his  rifle  when  they 
arrived,  and  seemed  perturbed  at  the  sight  of 
Lewis.  He  nodded  coldly,  and  went  on  with 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.         275 

his  work,  while  Lewis,  sitting  on  a  fire  log, 
pulled  out  his  pipe  and  gravely  filled  it. 
"  What  luck  ?  "  he  demanded  when  he  had 
finished.  He  leaned  forward  to  pull  an 
ember  from  the  fire,  his  eyes  wandering  from 
Wiggin,  while  he  puffed  deliberately  at  the 
tobacco. 

"  Luck  ?  "  snapped  the  other,  "  none  at  all." 

"  Dunno  —  that's  a  big  cow  ye  got  down 
yonner." 

Wiggin  shot  a  sharp  and  angry  glance  at 
Gower,  who  dropped  his  eyes  in  guilty  con- 
sciousness. "  Blast  it,  man,  what  d'you 
mean  ?  "  demanded  Wiggin. 

"  Nothin',  Mr.  Wiggin.  Cow  killin'  is  agin 
the  laws,  though.  They  took  up  two  fellers 
on  the  Wabsky  las'  week,  I  hear,  for  doin' 
the  same." 

"  Well,  my  friend,  I  suppose  you  are  now 
going  in  to  lodge  an  information  —  hey  ?  " 

"  Dunno,"  answered  Lewis,  slowly.  "  Got 
any  reasons  why  I  hadn't  oughter  ? " 

Wiggin  put  down  his  gun  and  looked  him 
over.  He  cleared  his  throat  huskily,  and 


276  IN  THE  FOREST. 

apparently  thought  hard.  "  Now  suppose," 
said  he,  "  that  it  was  made  worth  your  while 
to  let  this  drop  ? "  Lewis  asked  how,  and 
Wiggin  told  him. 

"  Want  to  buy  me  —  hunh  ?  "  he  snorted. 
"  Think  ye  can  buy  me,  hey  ?  " 

"  Every  man  has  his  price,"  was  the  answer. 
Wiggin's  philosophy  included  this  assump- 
tion in  a  developed  degree,  and  now  he  was 
disposed  to  give  it  exercise.  "  Every  man 
has  his  price,"  he  repeated.  "  Mine's  high," 
answered  Lewis.  Wiggin  named  a  figure 
that  to  him  seemed  reasonably  high.  Lewis 
named  one  higher.  He  was  mentally  cal- 
culating the  amount  of  McTaggart's  note 
with  interest  to  date,  and  the  price  he  named 
was  even  more.  So  they  sat  there,  haggling, 
while  Gower,  out  of  hearing,  looked  on 
gloomily.  In  the  end,  Lewis  got  his  price, 
and  Wiggin  prepared  to  write  a  check. 

"  Is  it  a  check  ?  "  inquired  Lewis.  "  Ye '11 
save  the  bother,  Mr.  Wiggin,  for  I'll  not 
take  it.  I  want  money  —  hard  cash  it  is,  or 
nothin'!" 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.        277 

Wiggin  laughed  lightly,  remarking  that 
Lewis  seemed  to  be  an  old  hand  in  such 
affairs  to  have  fear  that  a  check  might  be 
used  against  him.  "  YouVe  done  this  before, 
maybe  ?  "  he  sneered. 

"  No,  Mr.  Wiggin,  wit'  all  ye  know  av 
these  things,  ye're  wrong.  It's  the  first." 

He  got  the  amount  in  money,  slung  his 
gun  over  his  shoulder,  and  walked  off  whis- 
tling a  cocky  air.  "  Good-by,  Gower,  and 
look  out  the  Whooper  don't  get  ye !  Better 
luck  next  time,  Mr.  Wiggin,"  he  called  back, 
turning  to  wave  an  airy  adieu ;  but  Wiggin 
merely  cursed. 

McTaggart's  camp  was  deserted,  but  a 
square  of  birch  bark  set  in  a  cleft  stick  told 
where  he  had  gone.  He  was  away  tracking 
the  bush,  he  said,  looking  to  find  where  the 
moose  were  working,  and  would  be  away  a 
couple  of  days.  Lewis's  elation  subsided 
suddenly.  He  was  primed  to  push  the  roll 
of  bills  into  McTaggart's  hand,  and  to  end 
his  melancholy  at  once.  But  where  could  he 
find  him  ?  He  hopped  up  and  ran  to  where 


278  IN  THE  FOREST. 

McTaggart  kept  his  canoe.  It  was  gone, 
and  Lewis  knew  from  this  that  the  other 
would  stick  to  the  watercourses ;  so,  shoulder- 
ing his  pack,  he  pushed  along  in  pursuit,  but 
by  chance  going  precisely  in  the  wrong  direc- 
tion. He  spent  two  days  in  this  pursuit,  and 
then,  convinced  how  futile  was  a  search  in 
the  interminable  system  of  interlacing  dead 
waters,  bogans,  and  ponds,  returned  to  the 
still  vacant  camp.  Here  he  spent  another 
two  days,  fretting  and  fuming  over  Mc- 
Taggart's  absence,  and  then  went  cruising 
the  bush  again.  But  McTaggart  had  gone 
far,  and  the  week  had  passed  before  he 
returned  to  the  camp  on  the  big  pond. 
Lewis  was  away  at  the  time,  but  McTaggart 
rejoiced  in  a  letter  that  told  he  would  return 
the  following  day.  Weary  and  discouraged, 
he  prepared  his  evening  meal,  and  then 
turned  in  to  sleep  heavily. 

The  moon  arose,  big  and  bright,  while  the 
dead  forest  lay  silent  under  the  clear  gray 
light.  On  the  pond,  it  silvered  the  wake  of 
the  plying  muskrat,  and  se.t  the  water  gleam- 


THE  DUNGARVAN  WHOOPER.        279 

ing  where  the  trout  lunged  along  the  sandy 
shallows.  But  before  the  moon  had  cleared 
the  rim  of  the  distant  hills,  the  silence  was 
broken  by  a  pealing  murmur.  It  came  soft 
and  dreamily  first,  and  then  with  the  repeat 
droned  higher  over  the  sleeping  solitude. 
McTaggart  rolled  over  in  his  blankets,  and 
awoke  with  a  sudden  shudder.  He  cocked 
his  ear  and  listened.  A  cat-owl  boomed  far 
away,  and  a  muskrat  flopped  in  the  pond 
with  a  splash  that  set  his  heart  thumping 
against  his  ribs.  Once  more  the  low  note 
sounded.  It  was  a  cow  moose  calling  —  no, 
a  sudden  inflection  set  his  mind  at  rest.  It 
was  some  one  using  a  horn,  trying  to  call  out 
from  his  retreat  the  lord  of  the  woodland 
ranges.  Softly  launching  a  canoe,  McTag- 
gart stole  down  the  pond,  clinging  to  the 
black  shadow  alongshore,  and  awake  to 
the  chance  that  they  might  fire  on  him  in 
the  dark  by  mistake.  Softly  he  pushed 
along  till  he  heard  a  bark  horn  rattle 
against  the  cedar  splints  of  a  canoe  bottom 
and  a  rustle  as  some  one  rose.  Again  the 


280  IN  THE  FOREST. 

call  droned  across  the  stillness,  echoing 
upon  the  hilltops  and  beating  back  from 
ridge  to  ridge.  On  the  quiet  air  it  drifted 
afar,  stillness  again  following  in  its  wake. 
E-ee-ee-uu-oooo-O-oonh  !  McTaggart  listened, 
and  then  —  Unh  !  Unh  I  —  a  bull  grunted 
the  answer. 

"  There ! "  a  shrill  whisper  proclaimed. 
"  I  hear  him !  " 

McTaggart  was  near  enough  to  distin- 
guish the  tone;  it  was  Wiggin.  Again 
the  bull  grunted,  and,  slowly  drifting  to 
the  bank,  McTaggart  crept  ashore.  As  he 
dragged  the  canoe  after  him  its  bilges 
scraped  upon  the  bushes,  and  a  sharp  ex- 
clamation —  a  whisper  of  warning  —  told 
that  the  others  had  heard.  He  held  his 
breath  and  waited. 

"  Ain't  nawthin'  but  a  mushquash,  likely," 
he  heard  Gower  explaining  after  a  pause. 
"  I'll  tell  ye  if  the  moose  comes  in.  Don't 
shoot  'les'  it's  the  big  un." 

He  called  again,  and  once  more  the  bull 
answered.  He  was  coming  fast.  Me  Tag- 


THE  DUNGARVAN  WHOOPER.        281 

gart  heard  the  moose  swing  over  the  ridge 
and  plunge  down  toward  the  pond.  His 
horns  clanged  against  the  tree  trunks  as 
he  pressed  onward ;  a  dry  stub  cracked  as 
he  surged  against  it,  and  at  every  other 
stride  he  grunted  —  unh  !  —  unh  I  —  unh  ! 
Then,  halfway  down  the  slope  he  paused, 
quiet  as  a  mouse,  and  only  the  distant 
booming  of  a  cat-owl  broke  the  stillness 
drifting  down  upon  the  night. 

" E-unh!  E-unh!"  Gower  was  trying 
him  again.  The  muffled  note  whined  dol- 
orously, simulating  with  a  keen  inflection 
the  gurgling  of  a  complacent  cow.  Even 
McTaggart  admitted  the  man's  woodcraft, 
and  "  Unh !  Oonh  I "  the  bull  answered, 
beating  his  antlers  upon  the  saplings.  But, 
old  and  suspicious,  the  moose  waited  to 
make  sure  before  plying  his  courtship 
further.  McTaggart  heard  their  canoe 
creak  as  Gower  cautiously  moved;  then 
slosh!  slosh!  slosh!  close  at  hand.  He 
started.  But  it  was  not  the  bull ;  it  was 
Gower  imitating  with  his  paddle  the  tramp 


282  IN  THE  FOREST. 

of  a  cow  upon  the  shallows.  The  moose 
grunted  fiercely;  there  was  a  crash  in  the 
brush,  and  peering  through  the  undergrowth 
McTaggart  saw  a  black  form  stride  out 
upon  the  bog.  With  a  rending  of  dry 
wood  and  a  resounding  splash,  the  bull 
stepped  down  into  the  dead  water,  his  head 
held  aloft  and  swinging  from  side  to  side. 
His  nose,  stretched  out,  ranged  upward 
trying  the  air  with  a  deep  breath,  while 
the  broad  antlers  lay  back  upon  his  bris- 
tling shoulders.  McTaggart  stared,  a  sud- 
den thought  suggesting  that  this  might  be 
the  big  bull  returned  again  to  his  old  rang- 
ing ground,  the  big  bull  he  had  been  watch- 
ing for  Burling's  sake.  He  saw  the  others' 
canoe  drift  out  from  the  shadow,  Gower, 
with  noiseless  strokes,  driving  it  down  upon 
the  quarry.  Along  the  bank  strode  the 
bull,  grunting  once  as  he  searched  on  all 
sides  for  the  wooing  cow  he  had  heard 
from  his  haunt  high  up  among  the  hard 
wood.  As  he  turned,  the  moonlight  shone 
upon  his  horns.  McTaggart  started,  an 


THE  DUNGARVAN  WHOOPER.        283 

exclamation  breaking  from  him.  It  was 
the  big  bull.  In  the  dim  light  he  watched 
the  canoe  drift  slowly  forward,  while  his 
heart  beat  wildly  as  he  awaited  the  crack 
of  the  rifle.  Then,  clenching  his  teeth,  he 
leaped  upright,  and  screamed  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  lungs. 

A  startled  cry  answered.  The  bull, 
splashing  across  the  shallows,  halted  snort- 
ing. McTaggart  screamed  again.  A  flurry 
overwhelmed  the  canoe;  he  saw  Gower 
struggle  to  his  feet.  "  The  Whooper ! " 
screamed  the  man,  and  tumbled  backward 
into  the  stream.  Crash  followed  crash  — 
the  bull,  leaping  to  the  shore,  burst  his 
way  through  the  thickets.  Trembling  but 
satisfied,  McTaggart  lay  upon  the  ground 
clutching  the  pulpy  moss,  while  the  moose 
bounded  up  the  slope,  his  horns  clanging 
on  every  tree  trunk,  the  thickets  crashing 
beneath  his  tread. 

Dawn  came.  Wiggin  and  Gower  sat  in 
camp  —  Gower,  his  clothes  drenched,  lean- 
ing over  the  fire  vainly  seeking  warmth 


284  IN  THE  FOREST. 

and  dryness;  Wiggin  enraged  and  scorn- 
ful. 

"The  Whooper,  eh?"  He  glared  at 
Gower,  his  lip  curling.  "You  fool!" 
The  man  sullenly  wagged  his  head  and 
crouched  lower  over  the  blaze.  His  hair, 
dull  and  matted,  hung  over  his  low  brow, 
its  blackness  contrasting  the  pallor  of  his 
face.  With  his  eyes  shifting  about,  he 
answered  heavily,  "No,  sir — no  —  no,  don't 
say  that.  I  see  Tighe  when  the  Whooper 
got  him.  Oh,  sir  —  oh  —  oh  —  "  His  voice 
broke  into  whimpering.  "  I  seen  him  and 
it  was  orful.  I  seen  him  lying  limp  in  the 
snow  wit'  the  red  mark  acrost  his  throat, 
and,  way  off  in  a  black  swamp,  the  Whooper 
was  howlin'  and  hollerin'  like  a  luny.  Ugh-r 
—  it  was  orful,  sir !  " 

He  shuddered  anew,  bending  still  closer 
to  the  cheerful,  crackling  blaze.  Even  the 
daylight  failed  to  clear  his  terror.  Wiggin, 
as  contemptuous  as  ever,  demanded  whether 
he  had  ever  seen  the  Whooper,  and  Gower 
cried  please  God  that  he  never  should  again. 


THE  DUNGARVAN   VVHOOPER.         285 

Wiggin  laughed  mockingly.  "  You  get  into 
that  canoe,  Gower;  we'll  see  what  tracks 
your  Whooper  leaves." 

"Oh,  sir  — please!" 

Wiggin  cut  him  short.  Baffled  and 
trembling,  Gower  launched  a  canoe,  and 
steadied  it  until  Wiggin  walked  aboard. 
Then,  under  direction,  he  paddled  down 
the  pond  and  into  the  head  of  the  dead 
water  toward  the  scene  of  the  night's  fran- 
tic doings.  Wiggin  eyed  the  situation 
keenly;  he  marked  the  slots  in  the  mud 
where  the  bull  had  walked  out  into  the 
open ;  then  further  on  his  attention  was 
directed  to  a  broad  track  in  the  bank. 

"  There  !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  What's  that  ?  " 

Gower  looked.  To  his  accustomed  eye 
the  trail  told  its  own  story.  "A  canoe  — 
some  un's  hauled  ashore  there!"  He  was 
all  excitement,  and  with  a  strong  stroke 
drove  in  to  the  bank.  There  in  the  soft 
ground  he  made  out  moccasin  tracks,  and 
with  an  oath  leaned  forward  to  pick  up  a 
pipe. 


286  IN  THE  FOREST. 

"By  God!"  he  cried.  "That's  Sawny 
McTaggart's  pipe  or  I'm  a  liar ! " 

"  No  —  not  McTaggart's,  Gower.  It's  the 
Whooper's,  and  what  sort  of  tobacco  does 
the  thing  smoke?" 

Gower's  face  was  livid  with  passion,  and 
all  the  craft  and  cunning  hatred  of  his  re- 
mote Indian  ancestor  burned  upon  his 
brow.  He  ground  his  teeth,  and,  with  a 
gesture  of  rage,  hurled  the  pipe  far  from 
him.  "  Hush !  Listen !  "  exclaimed  Wig- 
gin,  raising  a  warning  finger.  "  What's 
that?" 

He  kneeled  behind  a  bush  on  the  bog, 
his  eyes  glittering.  Then  Gower,  watch- 
ing this  pantomime  of  expression,  saw  his 
face  twitch.  He  pointed  a  finger  across 
the  pond,  and  Gower  looked.  There  was 
McTaggart  paddling  alongshore,  and  watch- 
ing sharply  ahead.  He  saw  their  canoe 
drawn  up  on  the  bank,  and  halted.  He 
had  returned,  no  doubt,  to  look  for  his 
pipe;  and  the  sight  was  too  much  for 
Gower.  He  sprung  to  his  feet,  snatched 


THE  DUNGARVAN   WHOOPER.        287 

the  rifle  from  Wiggin's  hands,  and  sent  a 
bullet  ringing  across  the  water.  The  forest 
roared  with  the  echoes  of  the  explosion,  the 
empty  shell  leaped  upward  from  the  breech, 
and  Gower  fired  again.  But  his  rage  de- 
stroyed his  aim,  and,  ere  murder  could  be 
done,  Wiggin  knocked  up  the  muzzle  and 
snatched  the  rifle  from  his  hands. 

"  You  fool !  "  he  screamed  into  Gower's 
ear.  "  He  was  as  good  as  caught.  Damn 
you  —  stand  away  from  me!" 

McTaggart,  with  a  derisive  wave  of  his 
hand,  whirled  his  canoe  about  and  made 
off  down  the  pond.  But  he  was  hardly 
out  of  range  when  a  shout  brought  fresh 
alarm.  A  figure  came  out  of  the  woods 
and  waved  to  him,  and  for  an  instant  he 
thought  either  Gower  or  Wiggin  was  pur- 
suing, and  crouched  lower  to  escape  the 
expected  shot.  But  the  shout  was  repeated, 
and  looking  again  he  saw  it  was  Lewis.  With 
galloping  strokes  he  drove  his  craft  ashore. 

"  They  tried  murder !  "  he  cried.  "  They 
were  shootin'  at  me  !  " 


288  IN  THE  FOREST. 

"  Heavens,  then,  be  praised ! "  exclaimed 
Lewis,  "  I  thought  they  were  shootin'  the 
big  bull.  Is  that  all,  Sawny  ?  " 

But  McTaggart  was  in  earnest,  and  in  a 
few  words  he  made  Lewis  understand  what 
had  happened.  "  Murder,  ye  say ! "  roared 
Lewis,  "  and  by  him  yon  ?  The  divvil  — 
I'll  fix  him!"  He  put  McTaggart  into 
the  bottom  of  the  canoe,  bidding  him  lie 
hidden,  and  drove  back  to  the  head  of  the 
dead  water.  "  If  they  try  shootin'  on  me," 
he  promised,  "I'll  satisfy  them!"  Boldly 
he  paddled  up  to  the  bank,  where  Wiggin 
and  Gower  still  stood,  the  employer  venting 
his  spleen  upon  the  other's  head.  "  Drat 
ye,  be  still,  ye  loafer!"  cried  Lewis,  after 
listening  a  moment  to  Wiggin's  words. 
"  Yes,  it's  ye,  I  mean  —  I'll  have  a  word 
wit'  ye,  me  man !  Ye've  been  tryin'  murder, 
is  it?" 

"A  good  thing,  too,"  was  the  answer. 
"That  sneaking  poacher  would  be  better 
off  with  a  bullet  in  his  ribs.  I'll  see  him 
into  jail,  now,  and  make  sure  of  him!" 


THE  DUNG  ARYAN   WHOOPER.        289 

"  And  ye'll  follow  into  it  after  him,  Mister 
Wiggin,"  responded  Lewis,  sharply.  "Ye 
know  that  ye  cannot  shoot  at  a  man  as  ye 
please  even  out  here  in  the  woods.  I  grant 
it,  ye'll  be  sure  o'  mind  what  a  jury  down 
river'll  say  to  ye,  Mister  Wiggin,  wunst 
they  get  ye  afore  'em.  Ye  mind  that,  eh? 
Ye  and  yer  man,  there,  is  not  much  liked 
—  eh/  my  friend,  —  and  what '11  happen  when 
murder's  the  charge  ?  " 

The  warning  was  strong  with  meaning. 
Wiggin  glanced  at  him,  wondering  what 
was  the  next  to  come,  and  on  that  score 
Lewis  soon  set  him  at  rest.  "  I'll  throuble 
ye,  Wiggin,"  —  he  had  dropped  the  defer- 
ential prefix  and  was  slanging  the  other 
without  regard,  —  "I'll  throuble  ye  to  hand 
over  the  warrant  ye  have  agin  Sawny  Mc- 
Taggart,  or  I'll  be  down,  the  day,  to  the 
justice,  and  have  ye  properly  took  up." 

Assuming  a  cool  and  independent  atti- 
tude, Lewis  pulled  out  his  pipe  once  more, 
watching  Wiggin  sharply  over  his  fingers 
as  he  touched  a  match  to  the  tobacco. 


290  IN  THE  FOREST. 

"  How  about  it  —  eh  ?  "  he  demanded,  whiff- 
ing out  the  light.  In  Wiggin's  face  anger 
and  self-possession  struggled  for  mastery. 
Lewis  fixed  him  with  an  unflinching  eye, 
and  Wiggin,  cursing  under  his  breath,  drew 
out  the  warrant,  tore  it  across,  and  tossed 
the  fragments  into  the  stream.  "  I've  not 
done  with  the  dog  yet,  though,"  he  warned, 
his  face  wrinkling  craftily,  and  at  this  Mc- 
Taggart  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  canoe. 
Wiggin  greeted  him  with  a  curse. 

"  Ah-r,  there  you  are  —  eh  !  You've 
escaped  jail,  my  man,  but  you  wait  —  you 
wait ! "  Here  he  shook  his  fist  vindictively 
at  McTaggart's  head,  grinning  with  malev- 
olence. "  Mark  me  —  at  the  end  of  the 
month,  when  you're  turned  out  of  house 
and  home — thrown  out,  mind  you  —  just 
remember  me !  " 

"  Ye'll  rest  content  I'll  never  forgit  ye  !  " 
retorted  McTaggart.  "  I  misdoubt  ye  mean 
the  note  now  —  hey?" 

Wiggin  chuckled  jubilantly.  "  Right  you 
are,  Sawny  McTaggart.  I've  got  you  there, 


THE  DUNGARVAN  WHOOPER.        291 

for  I've  bought  the  note  from  Day,  and 
111  drive  you  from  the  place  when  I'm 
done."  He  drew  out  the  note  and  waved 
it  tauntingly,  but  Lewis  cut  in  with  a  hoot 
of  disdain.  "  Pass  up  that  note  there  ! "  he 
cried,  noting  that  Wiggin  was  waving  it 
in  McTaggart's  face.  "  Pass  it  along  here ! " 
he  roared.  Before  the  other  knew,  he  had 
reached  across  and  snatched  the  paper  from 
Wiggin's  hand.  "  There,  now,  and  this  is 
the  money  for  it,  ye  pawnbrokin'  thief." 
He  tossed  the  roll  of  bills  into  the  canoe, 
and,  driving  his  own  craft  about,  paddled 
down  the  pond,  McTaggart  wild  with  curi- 
osity. "  It's  nothing,"  Lewis  casually  re- 
marked ;  "  I  but  caught  him  in  evil  and 
made  him  pay  for  it."  He  told  the  story, 
and  McTaggart  protested.  "  But,  Reddy, 
it's  a  jail  offence  —  it's  blackmail  —  and 
he'll  have  the  law  on  ye."  But  Lewis  was 
as  derisive  as  ever.  "  He'll  have  no  laws  on 
me,  and  what  odds  if  he  do  ?  I've  no  wife 
or  childer,  and  a  trip  to  the  lockup  will  be 
but  food  and  fun  for  the  price  o'  nawthinV 


292  IN  THE  FOREST. 

"  Worry  be  the  day,"  moaned  McTaggart, 
"ye've  shifted  my  sins  to  yer  own  head." 

"  Sure,  Sawny,  and  now  we'll  be  goin' 
arter  the  big  moose  —  hey,  man  ?  " 

In  the  dusk  of  a  gray  afternoon,  a  week 
later,  a  moose  with  horns  spreading  like 
the  limbs  of  a  wasted  pine  was  pawing 
potholes  in  the  runway  at  the  foot  of  a 
wooded  hill.  His  flying  strokes  flipped 
the  leaves  and  soggy  soil  high  over  his 
haunches,  and  at  times  he  paused  to  beat 
a  sapling  with  his  antlers.  A  twig  cracked 
sharply  on  the  hill,  and  at  this,  transformed 
into  a  statue,  he  stood,  with  bristling  mane, 
staring  along  his  flank.  One  ear  hung  forward 
over  the  beam  of  the  broad  antlers;  the  other 
quivered  backward.  His  gray  nose  wrinkled 
while  the  neck  stretched  forth.  Then  a  rifle 
cracked,  the  woods  clattering  with  the  deto- 
nation. Down  upon  his  knees  crashed  the 
colossus,  swaying  heavily,  and  Sawny  Mc- 
Taggart, leaping  the  windfalls  and  breasting 
through  the  bush,  raced  down  the  hillside 
screaming  like  the  Dungarvan  Whooper. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

LIBERTY. 

A  SHAFT  of  sunlight  pierced  the  inter- 
lacing treetops  and  fell  broadly  upon 
the  forest's  yellow  floor.  Spring  had  come, 
and  with  it  the  woodland  life  moved  anew. 
At  the  foot  of  the  knoll  a  sandy  brook  rip- 
pled briskly  through  the  covert,  singing  a 
quiet  tune;  and  the  air  now  stirred  gently 
from  the  south.  Higher  rose  the  sun;  the 
breeze  died  away,  and  with  one  last,  listless 
whispering  of  the  foliage  overhead,  silence 
reigned.  Then — putt-putt  —  a  sharp  and 
querulous  putt!  Another  moment's  silence, 
and  after  it,  as  if  in  answer  — ye-onk  — ye-onk 
— ye-onk  I  Now  what  was  this  ?  Out  of  the 
thicket  stepped  majestically  an  impressive 
figure,  a  creature  of  cardinal  crown,  garbed 
with  bronze  and  gold,  stalking  the  brush  like 
a  veritable  monarch  of  the  domain.  Ye-onk 

293 


294  IN  THE  FOREST. 

— ye-onkl  Craft,  curiosity,  suspicion,  invi- 
tation—  all  were  sounded  in  that  sonorous 
yelp.  Ye-onkl  Onward  stepped  the  regal 
presence,  confident,  yet  ready  to  fly  at  an 
instant's  warning;  primed  for  braggart  woo- 
ing—  doubtful  on  the  way  to  conquering. 
So  up  the  hill  went  this  majesty  —  forsooth, 
a  turkey  gobbler  —  making  his  way  with  a 
hop,  skip,  and  stalking  stride,  his  cardinal 
crown  held  sideways,  and  no  end  of  expres- 
sion in  his  undecided,  mincing  gait. 

Putt-putt— ye-onk!  That  settled  it.  The 
voice  of  the  charmer  on  the  hilltop  sounded 
clear  and  sweetly  low.  There  could  be  no 
cheat  in  a  seductive  yelp  like  that.  Up  the 
last  rise  bustled  the  gobbler,  all  his  craft  suf- 
fused by  the  glow  of  amorous  conquest,  his 
fan  spread  in  astonishing  array,  his  wings 
curved  sidewise,  and  his  gallant  wattles  swell- 
ing in  red  display.  Drumming  noisily,  he 
strutted  the  opening,  and  there  before  him 
stood  the  charmer. 

Now  the  bar  sinister  of  turkey  bearings  is 
a  band  of  white  across  the  tail ;  rarely  found 


LIBERTY.  295 

among  the  wild  birds  of  the  forest  depths, 
though  every  mean  fowl  of  the  farmyard 
shows  it  in  its  fan.  So  was  this  charmer  of 
the  hilltop  marked  —  a  recreant  from  some 
squatter  cabin.  But  what  cared  the  amorous 
knight  for  this  ?  Little  indeed !  He  spread 
himself  before  her,  regardless  of  his  other 
queen  grubbing  a  breakfast  in  the  deserted 
cotton  patch  below;  and  with  all  his  bravery 
stalked  and  strutted  and  clucked  till  she  was 
hypnotized  into  delirious  attention.  Ye-onk  ! 
spoke  the  lady  love,  softly,  timorous  in  ado- 
ration. Swelling  his  snaky  neck,  he  fixed  a 
beady  eye  upon  her,  and  then  rang  the  woods 
with  his  song  of  love  —  hee — gobble  —  hob- 
ble— gobble. 

Nature,  with  all  her  admirable  qualities,  is 
sometimes  sadly  at  fault.  Here,  for  instance, 
was  magnificence,  a  bird  of  regal  splendour, 
and  yet  voicing  noble  passion  —  with  what  ? 
Hee — gobble  —  hobble — gobble!  Never  mind, 
—  the  demure  inspiration  of  this  obligate 
knew  no  better,  and  perchance  would  have 
turned  a  deaf  and  heedless  ear  to  the  swell- 


296  IN  THE  FOREST. 

ing  melody  of  the  nightingale  or  the  sweet, 
melancholy  pipe  of  a  wood  thrush.  Hee  — 
gobble  —  hobble — gobble  was  as  sweet  to 
her  as  any  other  note  might  be  to  maiden 
first  wooed  by  tender  lays.  Plainly  speaking, 
it's  only  the  system  that  counts,  and  here 
hee — gobble  —  hobble  was  it.  So,  nearer 
came  the  gobbler,  tuning  his  lay  of  love,  and 
though  the  charmer  feigned  a  vast  indiffer- 
ence, pecking  at  the  leaves  and  scratching 
them  aft  in  a  cloud,  she  could  not  restrain  or 
resist  the  advance,  and  nearer  and  nearer  the 
bold  one  drew.  Tutl-tutt!  said  he.  Putt- 
cluttl  she  answered,  giving  encouragement. 
Raising  his  sinuous  crest,  he  bustled  side- 
ways toward  her,  and  accordingly  she  squatted 
in  the  dust.  Putt!  With  an  eager  move- 
ment, his  head  launched  forward,  and  the  hen 
squawked  as  his  beak  descended  upon  her 
naked  poll  with  force  enough,  almost,  to  drive 
in  her  tender  brains.  But  nevertheless  she 
made  no  move  to  escape ;  victory  was  his. 
Putt!  the  descending  blow  fell  upon  her 
writhing  neck  —  the  conquest  was  accom- 


LIBERTY.  297 

plished.  She  was  his.  A  savage  instinct  — 
yes.  Much  like  the  human  savage  that 
wooes  his  bride  with  a  club  —  a  system  — 
merely  a  system.  Away  to  the  deeper  forest, 
now,  far  away  from  the  farmyard  birthplace, 
and  behind,  only  the  restraint  of  civilization 
exchanged  for  forest  love  and  liberty. 

They  walked  the  forest  glades  or  journeyed 
into  the  clearings.  He  led,  and  she  and  his 
other  wives  trailed  behind.  But  ere  long  she 
found  the  dream  was  short.  Like  other  maj- 
esties, this  one  had  all  the  selfishness  of  the 
kind.  There  was  a  tidbit  —  a  fat  morsel  — 
a  grub  or  a  swelling  kernel.  Putt-putt!  the 
gobbler  clucked,  and  again  and  again  the 
hens  ran  up  to  share  in  the  dainty.  But  — 
putt — gobble  —  he  wolfed  it  down  himself, 
and  the  putt-putt,  it  seemed,  was  no  invita- 
tion to  the  feast,  but  merely  his  exultation  at 
the  find.  So,  too,  at  times,  when  one  of  his 
wives  or  another  had  clucked  too  long  over 
some  morsel  haply  found  by  herself,  a  long 
and  snaky  neck  reached  out,  and  the  dainty 


298  IN  THE  FOREST. 

was  snatched  from  sight.  How  long  was  this 
to  last  ?  Not  long ;  one  by  one  the  four  wild 
hens  sneaked  aside,  and  in  hidden  nooks  laid 
their  eggs  between  branching  tree  roots  or 
in  the  shelter  under  some  fallen  log.  Last 
of  all  was  the  demure,  brown  creature  from 
the  farm  lands.  Perhaps  her  heart  was 
breaking  —  who  knows  ?  —  for  his  greed  and 
cruelty  grew  upon  her.  Nearly  always  he 
ignored  her  presence,  carelessly;  he  seized 
upon  her  food,  and  like  a  dog  in  a  manger 
was  aroused  only  when  some  other  gobbler 
disputed  his  sway.  Then  his  wattles  grew  a 
swollen  red,  his  gobbling  high-voiced  and 
challenging.  Feathers  strewed  the  battle 
ground  after  all  these  sanguinary  combats ; 
these  feathered  lords  rushed  together,  struck 
with  their  heavy  wings,  and,  desperately  seiz- 
ing each  other's  skinny  crowns,  tweaked  until 
they  drew  the  blood.  Then,  when  the  com- 
bat was  done,  and  he  by  his  weight  and  vigour 
had  won,  he  strutted  anew,  once  more  simu- 
lating his  first  amorous  courtship.  But  at 
length  she  no  longer  felt  even  a  passing 


LIBERTY.  299 

interest  in  the  demonstration ;  and  while  again 
he  was  raging  against  another  gobbler,  she 
fled,  and  left  him  a  lonely  monarch,  but  no- 
wise disturbed  at  her  defection.  Hardly  had 
he  beaten  off  the  other  when,  in  answer  to 
his  vainglorious  gobble,  another  hen  yelped 
from  the  hilltop,  coming  to  console  him. 

Back  to  the  edge  of  the  forest  went  the 
brown  hen,  alone  and  unattended.  Place 
after  place  saw  her;  at  length  she  settled 
upon  a  sunny  hillside,  and  in  a  deep  thicket 
hid  her  nest.  It  was  a  simple  home,  — 
nothing  but  a  hollow  scooped  among  the 
leaves,  —  but  so  artfully  concealed  that  one 
might  have  walked  within  a  foot  of  it,  un- 
aware of  her  treasure  that  lay  so  close 
beside.  In  time  there  were  eight  eggs  — 
creamy  white  and  splotched  with  brown 
—  lying  among  the  leaves,  and  there  she 
rested,  encompassed  by  a  hundred  perils. 
Once  a  wandering  coon  shambled  over  the 
log  under  which  she  lay,  and,  sniffing  eagerly, 
trailed  about.  But  she  lay  still  —  so  still 
that  her  heart  beat  a  terrifying  pulse  in 


300  IN  THE  FOREST. 

that  silence,  ready  to  wage  a  hopeless  battle 
against  the  marauder,  to  strive  and  do  for 
her  own.  But  the  night  prowler  made  on, 
and  she  was  safe.  Again,  a  fox  came  slink- 
ing down  the  hillside  in  the  moonlight, 
dragging  his  bushy  tail  with  a  rustle  across 
the  leafy  flooring.  She  heard  him,  and  the 
soft  footfalls  of  his  cushioned  pads  struck  — 
trot — trot — trot  —  each  one  a  blow  upon 
her  heart.  Nearer  —  nearer — so  near  he 
came  —  then  he  halted,  crouching,  so  close 
that  she  could  see  his  beady,  evil  eyes. 
In  vain  she  flattened  in  her  cover,  spreading 
her  wings  to  shield  these  blessed  posses- 
sions, striving  to  hide  with  all  her  craft 
from  the  peering,  malevolent  gaze  set  upon 
her.  Step  by  step  —  a  sinuous  shadow  in 
that  ghostly  half-gloom  —  the  fox  drew 
toward  her;  there  was  a  swift  rush  across 
the  leaves,  a  crackling  of  brush,  and  the 
destroyer  had  hurled  himself  against  her 
stronghold.  Leaping  from  the  place,  she 
took  a  half-dozen  running  steps,  and,  soaring 
into  flight,  went  blundering  away  through 


LIBERTY.  301 

the  trees.  A  half -hour  passed  ere  she  dared 
return.  Then  she  found  two  of  the  eggs 
destroyed  under  the  foot  of  the  enemy, 
and  the  others  rapidly  losing  their  warmth 
—  that  spark  of  fire  she  had  so  long  sought 
to  instil  from  her  own  feverish  breast.  But 
the  fox  no  longer  disturbed  her;  it  was 
spring  and  he  wandered  far,  and  when 
again  he  returned,  she  no  longer  feared  his 
cunning. 

There  were  other  perils,  though,  that 
beset  her  simple  household.  Days  later, 
when  she  had  left  the  nest  for  a  moment's 
food,  a  sense  of  evil  oppressed,  and  she 
hurried  homeward.  There  were  her  fears 
confirmed,  and  but  for  her  haste  might, 
indeed,  have  been  far  worse.  Something 
fled  as  she  drew  near — a  small  red  form, 
leaping  the  log  and  scampering  across  the 
bark,  scratching  upward  in  impetuous  haste. 
She  saw  it  at  a  glance  —  a  red  squirrel  — 
a  chattering,  remorseless  thief,  a  noisy  mur- 
derer. The  nest  was  robbed;  two  more  of 
the  eggs  were  gone,  and  from  the  treetop 


302  IN  THE  FOREST. 

the  miscreant  gibed  and  jeered,  buzzing 
taunts  at  her  while  she  settled  hopelessly 
again  over  her  four  remaining  treasures. 
With  added  care  and  watchfulness,  barely 
daring  to  leave  the  nest,  she  grew  gaunt 
and  overwhelmed  with  terror's  torments. 
A  wind  stirring  the  tree  tops  or  raking 
along  the  leafy  carpet  filled  her  with  an- 
guished dismay;  a  breaking  twig  set  her 
heart  to  beating  wildly.  Where  now  were 
the  vaunted  privileges  of  freedom?  Much 
better  the  lean  farmyard  and  the  fields,  and 
the  protection  that  man  gives  to  his  own. 
So  passed  the  days,  till  at  length  she  felt 
the  awakening  lives  stirring  beneath  her. 

They  came  from  the  shell  one  by  one, 
cheeping  as  they  forced  through  their  ar- 
moured covering  —  four  fuzzy,  scrambling 
chicks,  scarcely  able  to  stand,  and  clamour- 
ing to  be  fed.  But  instinct  was  there,  and 
with  it  enough  safety  to  let  the  mother 
forage  anew;  for  at  a  cluck  —  a  putt  of 
warning  —  they  buried  themselves  among 
the  leaves,  hidden  from  all  but  the  most 


LIBERTY.  303 

patient,  searching  eye.  Cunning  was  their 
first  impulse ;  a  hole  hardly  big  enough  to 
hold  them  was  a  safe  haven  from  almost 
any  foe,  and  in  the  close  coverts  no  hawk 
was  ever  hatched  that  could  stoop  quick 
enough  to  reach  them  once  they  saw  him 
coming. 

For  many  weeks  they  kept  to  the  ground, 
for  strength,  as  yet,  had  not  taught  them 
flight.  In  these  days  they  ranged  near  the 
nesting  ground,  squatting  at  the  first  alarm, 
and  with  eager,  beady  eyes  looking  every- 
where for  the  danger.  Or  at  a  note  from 
the  mother  hen  they  crouched  beneath  her 
guarding  wing,  and  once  there  could  safely 
defy  all  the  lesser  hawks,  and  some  of  the 
four-footed  marauders  too.  But  this  security 
in  no  way  remitted  the  least  bit  of  her  fear 
or  watchfulness,  and  the  sweetness  of  mother 
love  that  no  doubt  comes  to  every  living 
thing  of  the  woods  was  a  sweetness  largely 
alloyed  with  agony  and  unrest. 

Time  passed ;  their  strength  grew,  and 
one  day  she  led  her  brood  into  the  first 


304  IN  THE  FOREST. 

of  the  fields.  The  sun,  then,  still  hid  be- 
neath the  trees,  but  a  dull  glow  had  beto- 
kened his  rising,  and  dawn  was  close  at 
hand.  So  through  the  dewy  grass  they 
went,  regardless  of  the  wet  that  would 
have  brought  to  an  untimely  end  more 
delicate  chicks  of  the  farmyard;  and  in 
the  edge  of  the  opening,  the  brood  foraged 
widely.  Putt — here  was  a  swelling  grain; 
putt  —  here  a  fat  ant,  a  grub,  or  a  tender 
blade  of  green.  At  each  call,  the  chicks 
came  bundling  forward,  and,  between  times, 
looked  out  for  themselves.  The  light  grew ; 
it  was  day.  The  air  settled,  soft  and  warm ; 
they  ranged  wider.  Watching,  ever  wake- 
ful, fear  her  first  instinct  and  dread  ever 
in  her  heart,  the  old  bird  kept  guard,  at 
every  step  turning  her  eyes  in  all  direc- 
tions. Disaster  might  fall  out  of  the  clear 
skies,  or  dart,  unheralded,  from  the  neigh- 
bouring copse.  Or  again  —  a  writhing,  sin- 
uous band  of  black  —  a  snake  —  squirmed 
along  the  neighbouring  furrow;  and  in 
dire  terror  she  fled,  followed  by  her  brood- 


LIBERTY.  305 

lings.  Peril  was  everywhere  —  on  every 
side  —  in  the  heavens  above,  on  the  earth 
below.  But  food  is  the  first  principle  of 
life,  and  to  live,  the  wild  things,  even  in 
mortal  terror,  must  feed.  So,  harried  from 
one  covert  to  another,  they  worked  along 
the  forest  edge,  and  the  sun  rose  high 
above  the  trees. 

Who  could  see  the  light  shadow  that 
fell  across  the  earth,  swooping  from  over 
the  trees  swiftly  into  the  clearing?  It 
came,  an  emblem  of  destruction,  hovering 
for  an  instant ;  then  it  marked  its  prey,  and 
stooped.  The  mother  hen  saw  it,  poised 
for  the  rushing  stoop,  called,  and  a  trio  of 
fluffy  bodies  nestled  beneath  her  wing. 
But  the  fourth  —  too  far  away  —  looked  up- 
ward, saw  the  bolt  falling  out  of  the  blue, 
and,  palsied  with  fear,  crouched  on  its  nerve- 
less little  legs.  Yet  while  that  falling  form 
was  still  in  mid-air,  instinct  nerved  it,  and 
with  a  blind,  mad  exertion,  it  ran  again,  fall- 
ing and  blundering,  toward  that  protective 
haven.  A  flip  of  a  distended  wing  —  a 


3o6  IN  THE  FOREST. 

swift,  astonishing  flight  —  a  sudden  turn; 
the  air  rustled  as  the  hawk  swerved,  and 
the  tragedy  was  done.  One  frightened 
appealing  note,  a  small  voice  of  terror,  and 
away,  upward,  went  the  murderer,  flapping 
with  heavy  flight  toward  its  aerie  in  a  treetop. 

They  fled,  the  survivors,  hiding  in  the 
darkest  thicket  of  the  wood.  No  need  to 
stay  and  look  longer  upon  the  tragic  scene, 
the  trail  of  feathers  that  flew  listlessly  drifting 
down  the  gentle  breeze.  Away  from  it  — 
away  from  that  orgy  of  nature  —  that  life 
that  lives  in  death.  Overwhelmed,  they 
crouched,  quivering,  in  their  forest  haunt, 
mad  with  fresh  terror  each  time  the  wind 
swept  rushing  through  the  tops.  From 
there  they  heard  the  hawk's  shrill  whistle, 
and  his  shadow  fell  across  their  hiding- 
place  as  he  swooped  wheeling  over  the  trees. 
Three,  now,  were  left ;  and  for  them  —  what  ? 
A  moment's  respite,  perhaps,  and  after  that  — 

Day  waned,  and  as  the  shadows  trooped 
across  the  woodland,  they  perched  among 
the  trees.  But  even  here  the  mother's  fear 


LIBERTY.  307 

felt  no  rest;  she  hid  her  head  beneath  her 
wing  in  quest  of  sleep,  awakening  fitfully 
at  every  sound  in  the  darkling  wood.  So, 
beset  on  every  side,  the  little  brood  sought 
safety  in  numbers,  and  in  one  of  the  big 
bottoms  joined  the  other  flock.  But  even 
here  there  could  be  no  peace,  for  the 
brown  creature  found  that  her  one-time 
gallant  was,  after  all,  little  better  than  a 
braggart  boor,  an  overmastering,  self-cen- 
tred creature  of  selfish  purpose.  When- 
ever a  hen  clucked  to  the  fledglings, 
calling  them  to  the  feast,  he  darted  in  at 
an  eager  run,  snatching  the  morsel  and 
masterfully  trampling  the  chicks  whenever 
they  came  into  his  way.  Thus  the  spring 
passed  on,  summer  came,  and  the  young 
birds  essayed  their  first  cumbersome  flight. 
They  learned  that  putt-putt  is  a  warning 
if  pitched  in  a  certain  key,  and,  whenever 
the  note  gave  warning,  they  spared  no 
time  to  look  about  —  to  try  what  way  the 
danger  came  —  but  with  a  short,  swift  run 
leaped  into  the  air,  and  went  soaring  off 


308  IN  THE  FOREST. 

among  the  trees.  Yet  even  this  accom- 
plishment could  not  master  the  dangers  of 
the  earth,  and  another  tragedy  befell.  The 
early  morning  passed,  and  the  flock,  strag- 
gling in  from  the  sandy  river  bottom,  had 
just  reached  the  edge  of  the  woods.  Easy 
and  confident,  the  three  young  ones  strag- 
gled through  the  thickets,  disregarding  the 
old  hen's  querulous,  anxious  complaint. 
Why,  indeed,  should  they  forever  keep 
beneath  her  wing  when  here  was  the  whole 
forest  before  them  —  a  world  to  prospect 
and  discover,  stored  with  rich  treasure  of 
delicacies.  Cheep!  Here  was  an  ant-hill 
brimming  with  fat,  white  grubs ;  cheep ! 
a  forgotten  grain,  ripe  to  bursting.  Re- 
gardless of  the  distracted  hen,  they  ran  in 
all  directions,  and —  Putt!  Putt!  There 
was  no  mistaking  that  note,  a  clarion  of 
,  alarm.  Putt!  With  one  impulse,  the 
whole  flock  leaped  into  a  run,  the  silence 
broke  with  a  thundering  of  wings,  they 
soared,  and  away  through  the  openings  flew 
the  affrighted  birds  —  all  but  one,  one  of  the 


LIBERTY.  309 

three.  The  destroyer  had  him — a  mangy 
dog  fox,  prowling  homeward  after  an  event- 
less night  among  the  farmyards  far  across 
the  fields.  He  stood  now,  his  fore  feet 
planted  on  the  quivering  quarry,  and  his 
fangs  gripping  its  writhing  neck.  So  it 
struggled  —  once  —  and  was  still ;  and  the 
dog  fox,  twisting  it  across  his  shoulder, 
leaped  homeward  to  his  earth,  to  the  vixen 
and  her  hungry  cubs  lying  in  the  hollow  of 
the  neighbouring  hill.  Two,  now,  of  the 
fledglings  were  all  that  were  left,  and  the 
mother  hen,  lighting  on  a  ridge,  yelped  again 
and  again  until  they  found  her,  and  came 
running  forward,  eager  for  the  protection 
of  her  encircling  wing. 

The  dire  lesson  was  not  without  its  re- 
sult. For  days  afterward  the  two  survivors 
kept  closely  to  the  flock,  avoiding  the  fallen 
logs  and  hollows  that  might  hold  some  lurk- 
ing foe.  And  thus  they  grew,  their  beady 
eyes  forever  on  the  watch,  suspicion  in 
every  movement,  and  a  shy,  crafty  method 
in  the  way  they  crept  about  the  woodland. 


3 io  IN  THE  FOREST. 

Now  there  was  a  change.  The  first 
leaves  of  the  hardwood  were  touched  by 
the  autumn  paint,  the  persimmons  were 
ripening  on  the  trees,  and  the  locust  had 
ceased  his  busy  intonation,  silenced  by  a 
killing  night  frost.  Confidence  came  to 
the  two  young  birds,  and  they,  too,  began 
to  strut  and  to  take  on  airs,  self-reliant  in 
craft  and  ready  and  willing  to  care  for 
themselves.  They  strolled  up  from  the 
bottoms,  and,  ranging  along  the  ridges, 
gorged  on  the  fat  harvest  of  the  season. 
There  were  nuts  of  every  kind  and  falling 
seed;  their  crops  grew  heavy,  their  wattles 
glistened,  and  a  glorious  sheen  displayed 
itself  upon  their  plumage.  Like  all  the 
other  forest  creatures,  they  were  enlivened, 
invigorated,  by  the  first  sharp  airs  out  of 
the  north.  Widely  they  tracked  the  ridges, 
with  their  strength  daunting  every  four- 
footed  marauder  that  tried  to  take  them 
on  the  flank. 

But  there  was  one  other  enemy  upon 
whom  they  had  not  reckoned  yet.  They 


LIBERTY.  311 

had  just  crossed  to  a  neighbouring  ridge, 
and  were  scattered,  feeding  upon  the  ground- 
nuts, when  a  warning  putt-putt!  sounded 
the  alarm.  Then  there  was  a  rush  of  wings, 
a  rustle,  and  a  cloud  of  flying  leaves;  after 
that,  a  crash  that  shook  the  forest  and 
went  banging  away  in  echoes  upon  the 
riven  air.  In  mid  flight  the  old  gobbler 
collapsed,  pitched  forward,  and  struck  upon 
his  back,  stone  dead.  Crash!  Again  the 
gun  roared,  and  this  time  the  searching 
lead  found  its  billet  in  one  of  the  growing 
pair.  He  felt  the  shot  strike  deeply  —  a 
mortal  wound  —  yet,  spreading  his  wings 
fixedly,  he  sailed  on,  and,  landing  lightly, 
ran  at  full  speed  into  the  deepest  thickets 
of  the  swamp.  Weakness  overtook  him 
there,  and  he  died ;  and  that  night  a  scav- 
enging raccoon  found  a  fat  meal  awaiting 
him  in  his  chosen  runway. 

Vainly  the  mother  hen  yelped,  once  and 
again  upon  a  hilltop,  calling  for  her  young. 
Terror-stricken,  the  survivor  had  branched 
off  among  the  trees,  and  at  nightfall  an- 


3i4  IN  THE  FOREST. 

He  was  close  now,  very  close  —  so  near 
she  could  hear  him  panting  with  exertion. 
His  hand  outstretched  to  grasp  her,  and 
she  swerved.  The  next  moment  she  had 
dodged  into  an  impenetrable  tangle,  and, 
with  head  down,  plied  among  the  interlac- 
ing branches,  while  the  man  behind  fought 
vainly  with  the  brambles,  cursing  his  stu- 
pidity, and  too  late  chancing  a  snap  shot 
as  she  crossed  far  away  in  the  opening. 
At  last  she  dropped  into  a  walk,  painfully 
dragging  her  drooping,  broken  wing.  Sharp 
twinges  like  fire  racked  her,  and  perforce 
she  halted,  resting  upon  the  snow.  But  the 
rest  was  short.  A  sound  in  the  brush 
startled  her  anew;  there  was  the  man 
tracing  out  her  track,  following,  still  intent 
to  slay.  Onward  the  hunted  creature  took 
her  way;  again  she  stopped  to  rest.  An 
hour  passed;  her  wing  had  stiffened  till 
every  movement  was  an  agony.  So  behind 
a  log  she  squatted,  watching  on  every  side 
for  danger,  alarmed  by  every  sound  in  the 
whispering  wood. 


LIBERTY.  315 

Ye-onk  !  Ye-onk  !  A  yelp  sounded  near  at 
hand.  She  lay  still,  listening.  Ye-onk  — 
ye-onk  —  again  !  Somewhere  from  in  the 
distance  it  was  answered,  so  she  too  gave 
the  call.  Ye-onk  — ye-onk !  The  sharp 
note  pierced  the  silence  anew,  and  she  arose, 
listening,  while  the  other  turkey  answered. 
But  surely  there  was  no  peril  here.  She 
stepped  forward,  and  slowly,  cautiously,  and 
in  pain,  she  limped  along.  The  other  bird 
had  drawn  nearer,  at  regular  intervals  the 
yelping  on  the  hilltop  tolled  them  on. 
Ye-onk — ye-onk!  The  other  bird  was  very 
close.  She  leaned  down,  peering  through 
the  tangle,  and  there  on  the  knoll  stood 
a  gobbler,  almost  grown.  The  sun  shone 
full  upon  him  ;  his  plumage  glistened,  and 
for  a  moment  he  strutted  gayly,  puffed  out 
and  proudly  conscious.  Ye-onk  f  yelped  the 
wounded  bird  — ye-onk !  It  was  the  fledg- 
ling of  the  spring,  now  grown  to  a  mag- 
nificent. Ye-onk  !  —  she  yelped  again ;  then, 
close  at  hand,  something  rose  from  behind 
a  windfall.  She  gave  one  glance,  and,  terri- 


3i6  IN  THE  FOREST. 

fied,  halted  in  her  track.  Putt!  Putt!  A 
wild  alarm.  Putt  /  The  gobbler  heard.  He 
dropped  his  head,  clapped  his  wings  closely 
to  his  side,  and  ran.  Crash !  A  cloud  of 
blue  smoke  poured  down  the  hillside,  min- 
gling with  a  drift  of  feathers  that  sailed 
listlessly  along  the  quiet  air.  Crash  —  bang ! 
Again  that  dread-inspiring  sound.  Destruc- 
tion was  there,  and  the  mother  bird  fled 
the  place.  On  and  on  she  went,  the  forest 
echoing  with  the  exultant  whoop  of  the 
hunter,  a  cry  of  joy  that  mocked  her  terror 
and  distress.  She  kept  the  way  with  unim- 
peded haste  until  night  drew  down  upon 
the  wild.  Yet  even  darkness  bore  its 
terrors  to  her  frantic  breast.  Impeded  by 
her  broken  wing,  she  could  not  roost  upon 
the  trees.  Instead,  she  crouched  in  a  hollow 
between  two  roots,  and  with  wakeful  eyes 
searched  the  darkness  for  every  known  foe. 
There  the  first  light  of  the  moon  found 
her;  and  by  its  light  she  made  out  a  slink- 
ing form  stealing  with  velvet  pads  across 
the  forest  floor.  Sniff!  It  paused.  She 


LIBERTY.  317 

saw  it  peer  about;  its  gaze  was  fixed  upon 
her.  Vainly  she  crouched  lower;  she  saw 
it  stealing  nearer.  A  sudden  flurry  of 
leaves  —  a  leap  —  an  outstretched  form  hurl- 
ing through  the  air!  With  every  nerve 
aflame  she  sprang  from  her  bed;  another 
effort,  and  she  had  found  sanctuary  upon 
a  low-lying  limb.  Below,  the  baffled  fox 
mawed  a  mouthful  of  feathers,  whining  as 
he  circled  all  about.  Weariness  over- 
whelmed her,  but  still  she  clung  to  her 
perch.  She  watched  and  waited,  and  below 
death  squatted  upon  its  haunches,  waiting. 
Overhead  the  moon  beamed  in  all  its  glory, 
and  a  myriad  stars  brightened  the  velvet 
sky.  Peace  was  in  the  sky  —  peace  in  the 
air  and  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  woods. 
Yet  underneath  lurked  death,  patient  and 
resolved,  scenting  with  that  strange  faculty 
of  a  beast  of  prey  the  presence  of  a  wounded 
quarry.  So  squatting,  he  awaited,  and  the 
bird,  her  wound  burning  with  awakened 
vigour,  felt  her  grasp  relaxing.  Once  she 
swayed  perilously,  and  the  dark  form  beneath 


3i8  IN  THE  FOREST. 

arose  and  stood  with  gaping,  fang-distended 
jaws.  Yap!  He  barked  shrilly,  and  the 
hill  answered,  repeating  the  terror  to  her 
ears.  She  swayed  forward  —  saved  herself 
—  lurched  dizzily,  and  fell. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


OApr52LU 


1 9 


LD  21-95m-ll,'50(2877sl6)476 


IB  32666 


